


your rosary beads under the bed

by fated_addiction, housebigbangmod (zulu)



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Challenge: house big bang, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-25
Updated: 2009-03-25
Packaged: 2017-10-12 21:43:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 24,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/129388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fated_addiction/pseuds/fated_addiction, https://archiveofourown.org/users/zulu/pseuds/housebigbangmod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The truth is she's had the letter since June. We carry our memories in too many ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, thank you to all the people that have both encouraged me and not called me crazy for doing this again. *g* To Jenn, Michelle, and everyone else. General spoilers for season five.
> 
> [](http://house-bigbang.dreamwidth.org/24602.html)  
> by [](http://isaytoodlepip.livejournal.com/profile)[**isaytoodlepip**](http://isaytoodlepip.livejournal.com/)
> 
> [](http://house-bigbang.dreamwidth.org/17575.html)  
>  by [](http://aquatic_fishy.livejournal.com/profile)[**aquatic_fishy**](http://aquatic_fishy.livejournal.com/)
> 
> [](http://house-bigbang.dreamwidth.org/21027.html)  
>  by [](http://mem_vermelha.livejournal.com/profile)[**mem_vermelha**](http://mem_vermelha.livejournal.com/)

There's this picture on her dresser, resting on a corner in the back. Behind a line of candids, her parents and a few friends, it gathers a blur of dust; in smears, the adhesive still pretends to be brand-new. Four or five dollars, just for a wooden frame. She remembers buying it. Then she doesn't. The story always changes on that end.

It's just the two of them though. They're ageless. Him and her, brother and sister, with a backdrop that can be anywhere. The sky, gray, holds a blanket of clouds with a few lines that heave and pull. There's a tree, too, the branches bony and thin and stretching, like hands, to clasp behind their shoulders.

It rained that day. Or didn't. Mostly, she remembers nothing else.

When Chase picks it up, he holds it between his palms and frowns, looking back at her. "What's this?"

You've met him before, she almost says. Her brother. Once upon an accident; Chase was coming out of her place and he was coming in, a while back, when he was here instead of home. That's all Chase knows. There's another photo too in her mother's wallet. A lunch, absent, and he learned there too. She just has a brother. It should seem easy, the acknowledgment.

She steps forward though, her throat drying, and peers over his shoulder. She doesn't take it. Somehow, that's what the corners are for. Slowly, her arms wrap around her chest as she sighs. She thinks of the answer, but there's really no answer. Everything always seems to begin with: _well, once that summer_ like a joke, if she wanted to be funny.

It does go like that.

 _Well, once that summer_. He was eighteen. She was fourteen. She was nothing more than skinny knees too. He wore brass buttons, grinning for bronze and gold stars – there was a favorite song that year too, something she and her friends used to sing at the top of their lungs. Ribbons. Medals. But he said something like _I'm going to make you proud_ , waving his admission papers around for days. Her mother cried for weeks, after he left, and her father just remembered Vietnam. It was never the same for them after that. The picture stands alone though, one of those memories that isn't quite memory. Just there, all the same.

"It's -" she's hesitant, out of habit. Not because of what it is, more so because Chase is Chase and there are just those things. She swallows though, staring at the frame. She remembers. It was hot and wet. She lost that tank top weeks later, to the washer and dryer and more than a few grass stains.

It stops though. He's looking at her. There's heaviness to his gaze that she doesn't like. It's almost predictable. She waits for him to say something; he reaches for her, keeping the picture in his hand, and presses his mouth to her hair. He lingers too long and her shoulders twist, rising and then falling. He knows a little bit, but not much. As much as she can tell him. Or chooses, depending on the day. There's little comfort in that.

"It's just a long time ago," she murmurs finally. She means it.

* * *

The truth is she's had the letter since June, scrawled against the back of a yellowing page.

 _Hey_ , it still says. _Hey. Sorry I've been - well, sorry. There hasn't been time for an email or two. Or whatever. Just been busy. I'm heading back for a little while. Not really ready to go home. You know how it is. I guess - I'd like to talk. But I'm saving that for later. Listen -_

It always stops there too. When she holds it, her fingers feel stif. The paper is too thin. She remembers a story about haggling. Mom and dad wanted another teacher. Neither of them really had a love for it; it was an early sign, even then, of wanting to get out. Maybe. Maybe, not.

It was as far as it went. They both grew up.

But her fingers crawl over the ink, the blue that looks like black, sprawled sharply in contrast. She can almost hear his voice. He's rambling. It's like him, she thinks too. Just like _him_. That's the difference between Jamie and her: he thinks, he speaks, he writes - it's all the same for her. He tries not to show too much. She hesitates more. But it's the first time that he's stopped something and it worries her. It really worries her.

There was an email to say that she got it. _See you then_. She hasn't said anything else. She doesn't know how to say anything else. He comes, he goes, and she lets him. Most of the time, she just lets him without a word. It's the kind of thing she always uses as an excuse. It's family. It's nothing new.

Turning the letter over, there's just a date and a time. _See you then?_


	2. Chapter 2

The airport is cluttered and crass, filled with people that seemingly favor frowns and lazy maneuvering instead of actually taking the time to be careful.

She stands alone by a cluster of seats. They're blue and squeak, even as she gives in and sits on the edge of one. Her bag drops next to her, following with the same kind of sound. It reminds her of the hospital; a color scheme of grieving in whatever variation and outside the emergency room, they're the same too. Like a joke. She's waiting though, her gaze dropping to her wrist. She falls to a pattern: count to twenty, check her watch, and count to twenty again, check her watch.

She can't help it. She _meant_ what she said to Chase. It's been a long time.

It's different. She has no idea why, all of this sudden, she's nervous. Uneasy, even. There are pockets of memories that she has, of her brother and growing up. They seem strange now, older and with what little snippets of conversation she has with her parents. On occasion, of course. Things have changed them. Life has changed her, is _still_ changing her. At the same time too, she and Jamie have been so removed from each other's lives these last, couple years, she doesn't know what to do. What to expect.

She needs to expect something. A few letters, emails, a call or two – it doesn't do anything. And strangely enough, this feels new.

Pressing her hands to her legs, she leans forward and sighs. Her phone is at her hip, a contrast to the color of scrubs she forgot to change. It makes a loud snap when she picks it off, dropping it into her bag. She has to go back to the hospital tonight, but she's cleaned the guest room twice, if only for the sake of anticipation.

She's nervous. It's been awhile since she's been this nervous. There's a picture in her mind of her brother. Maybe, that summer, like the picture. Maybe, better, years later. Maybe, it's the guy that Chase off-handedly mentions here and there. But staring into the crowd, watching the lines of people, fold and unfold, marching crookedly to different doors and sides, she begins to wonder - what if she doesn't know him?

It seems odd, too, that he's coming to see her. Sure, she's had the letter for awhile. Her detachments with her family are purposed, poised for a little distance and sanity's sake. It's a gesture of survival, something that cushions her connection to him. Selfish, yes, but it's how she's gotten by the years.

What if she's seen him and has forgotten more than she should have?

It isn't that she minds; last night, she sat on the phone with her mother. _How are you? How's work? How's that boyfriend of yours?_ The same questions in rotation rehearsed and tensed. She still feels the expectations in her voice; lined up to say _Allison, you really haven't done much._ But what she does know is that Jamie hasn't talked to their parents in years, extra fallout from when he enlisted. Look at them, she thinks. She married a dying man. He sent himself as express package to war.

But she didn't tell her mother anything. She should've said something.

Standing again, she checks her watch. The hands, gold, still rest in the same place. Feels like it, at least – she doesn't know. It's her nerves. Her mouth purses tightly and she looks into the crowd again, watching a clump of numbers pass. Families and singles, pairs talking about breakfast, and men marching the paper back to their seats. She doesn't know what it is about the airport that bothers her. The pace. The faces that she still sees. She's uncomfortable. Everything seems too coy.

"Hey."

It's barely a greeting. She jumps when the hand drops, her eyes widening as she whirls around. Her lips part, straight to an _o_ , and Jamie's standing there, uniform and all, grinning tiredly at her.

"You're blonde again," he says.

And he doesn't wait either, pulling her into his arms. His hands press into her back, his fingers curling into her jacket as he continues, rambling. "Mom must be ready to throw a party. Remember that? Her blonde phase. She wanted everything to be blue and all of us - "

He stops, pressing his mouth into her shoulder. She can't find any words. There's a burn in her throat, loud and heavy. She's not used to this. She's used to him being this forward. They were close and not close, the two of them going through the years – so _far_ – with their moments, separate as anything else. But she lets him lean into her. There's a large sigh, pressed over her neck again. The sensation is soft, warm. She can almost feel him shaking. It could be her. But he's talking a mile a minute, over and over again, and she's just confused.

"Hey."

It's the only thing she musters, finally, soft as she leans back into her brother's arms. There's this strange, smoky smell that stretches over him. It's the airport, she thinks, the clumps of people that manage to sweat and swear and let you carry the brunt of it as well.

He laughs softly. "Hi. _Sorry_ \- it's the coffee and flying, I guess."

She pulls back, only slightly, looking up at him. _It's okay_ , she hears herself saying as she takes a look. His eyes are dark, lines digging under and into his skin. There's a sharp scar that draws along the side of his mouth. He keeps his hands stretched, resting along her hips. He leans a little, trying to hide the heaviness of a pain. She thinks. She's only assuming. But he looks uncomfortable too, turning his gaze away from hers, but tightening his grip on her all the same.

She doesn't recognize him. She _wants_ to recognize him.

A part of her, if anything just recognizes the inclination. He was overseas, working, when she lost her husband. It was Germany, she thinks. One of the first and _only_ letters she did get from him at time came instead of him. It wasn't a something here or there, an apology or two.

It was what she needed to hear.

Still, she lies. For him too. "You look good," she murmurs finally. Her mouth tries to smile too. "You smell a little funny - but you look good. Are you hungry?"

"Nah."

He waves his hand, almost grinning lopsidedly as he starts reaching for his bag. It's dropped between them, resting over his feet. There's no memory or acknowledgment of hearing it. Her bag too was forgotten. It stands in her place over the chair she had been occupying. She grabs it, digging inside for her phone; no message, she's relieved. No hospital. That's the last thing that she needs right now.

"Let's get out of here."

He pauses, reaching, and then ruffles her hair. "We'll talk in the car."

It's as she remembers then, she thinks, this part. Jamie, forward. Jamie, just smiling. She nods slowly, trying not to let that creeping feeling of her nerves crawl back into her throat. She manages to bite back a sigh, nodding again, and then laces her arm through his.

She just says it.

"I missed you."

It comes quietly. She thinks of Chase. She thinks about their talk weeks earlier, their progress and their fall. The things that they say. The things that they _don't_ say. Some of it could be funny. Most of it, not. But here, just here, she means this as she says it, means it more than she has in a long time. It's frightening to feel this open, almost too vulnerable, with the wear of her old memories on the brink of skipping out. She wonders vaguely if he's got questions to ask too.

She's got plenty with or without opportunity.

He doesn't say anything though, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pressing a kiss to her hair. It doesn't feel right. The actions are there; the little bits and pieces of what she knows and should know are too. She wonders what he's lost, what he's brought.

She tries to remember the last time. It's there. Jokes and dinners, faces of people and emails. Fragments, she thinks. They did well with fragments. _The desert, it's just the desert_. It was something he used to say, when they were kids. He had these odd quirks. She remembers those too.

"I - " he starts finally, "did you get the letter? I was thinking about it on the plane. I didn't want you to think that I'm going crazy. I should've emailed you. I definitely could've. I was kind of - "

She looks up, "Not thinking?"

He laughs tiredly. His face wears it as a dig. It's not a dig though. Her mouth rolls into a frown. She's a little tired too, she reminds herself. He's just arrived. There's plenty of time to talk.

"Sorry," Cameron apologizes. "I'm just - it's been a long morning. I don't mean to sound like mom."

He laughs again, a little louder. The sound is almost too thick, forced if anything. It crashes and twists, earning a glance from a few people passing by. He's wearing a grin with his teeth, staring down her with something that should look like amusement. She shivers, just a little, and turns away to keep herself moving. She knew it was going to be like this, she thinks. He never comes home the same way. This isn't home either. But, then again, it makes no difference – they're the same way.

"It's fine. Don't worry."

He's trying to mean it. Jamie's mouth twists, just a little, and he chuckles again. _Just the coffee_. There's this sense of a rush, heavy and wavering. He's watching her and she should know what to think. She does know what to think. But the lines are blurring, instead, and she's facing the difference between what is _work_ and what _isn't_ again.

"I know you."

He says it. She laughs softly, trying. "You do, huh?"

Her gaze is warm. Her fingers wrap around his arm, tightening only slightly into a squeeze. She reminds herself to tell him about Chase. He sort of likes Chase. She remembers an off-handed question. He could've been polite. They're doing dinner around the corner, the three of them. Just so they can meet. They don't have to meet, but she feels a little more than obligated.

She hates that. Neither of them will know.

"You're still the same."

This comes out of nowhere and she manages a little bit of surprise. Her idea of time is shaky. There is then, there is now, and it's shaky, really, trying to maneuver herself around it. Out of habit, she tries to hide her discomfort. She watches as he draws himself taller again, straightening his shoulders and then trying to smile. His mouth twists.

"What?" – she can't help it, confused. She should be better at this.

He's quiet, as they stop. In front of them, there's a line to the escalator. There's a mother yelling at her kids. A crowd splitting to different gates. Everybody's on their phone, one way or another. People with suitcases that are two heavy, trying to drag them down the stairs. It's the chaos that is ever-present, the same face that she understands with work. Somebody drops something and Jamie tenses, his arm closing tightly over her shoulders. Just a little more.

"You're still the same," he says again. There's a funny taste to it.

 _I guess_ , she can only think.

* * *

It isn't until later, much later, that Chase leaves a message. Or she gets it – there's no difference these days. She's already called in on a favor, asking for someone to cover for her until a little later.

The diner is loud, set against the end of the city. It fronts as a sandwich place, a coffee shop, and remains small, down the street from her place. There's no student traffic, hospital traffic, and leftovers, veering in and out. It's nice to hide in, get away, and there's no one to see her, to pick and ask questions, which makes her relax a little bit.

She never walks here, but she should. It would be something to do. Lately, though, she's been a little too tired to do much of anything. She should be better though. She's going on two resolutions, three years running and a job that still wears a kind of uncertainty. She hasn't even come to terms with what's happen over the last stretch of weeks.

Still though, it was the only place she could think of though.

Her phone is closed though. The message, frank, replays in her head. There's something about _checking in_ , something about things to do and talking to her later. It's set as a standard reply, no expectations; sometimes, she finds herself hating that. Then again, it's only because he's used to what she gives back.

The edges of their relationship are fringing. She's not exactly sure how to set herself against it. It shouldn't matter.

She should be better.

He's good at _that_ too, detached and not quite detached, worried but not quite worried. She doesn't know what to think of it most of the time. And he means well, which is why the guilt starts to climb in her throat. He's too used to taking that step back. She doesn't mean to push; but pushing keeps these things as they are, in front of her, as she needs to see them. She sighs though, hanging up the phone.

Her eyes close.

Jamie's disappeared to the bathroom – to washes his hands, he tried to say, but then nervously dropped into another tirade. He's impossibly unsettled in front of her, taking what she knows and remembers and phasing it into something completely foreign. She's worried. She shuffles her phone away, back into her bag, and leans into the edge of the table. Her mouth purses tightly.

He's been asking her, since the drive out of the airport, _are you sure_ – as if he were worried that she's been forcing herself to do this, as if he's imposing. She's wondering if she's wearing a particular face. She doesn't mean to. It's a habit.

"Everything is," she mutters to herself.

There's nobody here. A few waitresses, girls in the back that giggle and sift, reading high school gossip and a few magazines. Somebody's left an empty glass at the table across from her, a few bits of change that sit in a tiny puddle. Soda or something, she thinks.

Jamie comes back though, half-smiling and sliding his hands into his pocket. He gets a few looks. It's the uniform. His jacket is resting against his seat, hooked to the back of his side of the booth. She studies the buttons briefly. Still those same colors, still what she remembers. But he sits and then reaches for his drink.

It's weird to be able to say _family_ and _here_ in the same sentence. It's not something that should feel like that, but it does.

Ignoring her thoughts, she studies him. He looks a little better, if better is really the right kind of word. She's hesitant though. It might be the scar. She keeps going back to that _scar_. She should look away. It shouldn't be something new. She sees things, _has_ seen things, but this is her brother and even thinking about that, the possibility and the scenarios, scare her more than just a little bit.

"Sorry," he sighs. "Just needed a minute."

She shakes her head. "It's fine."

He looks up at her. His gaze is pointed. She tries not to frown. It's different here, but then again, he's been here before. He's visited. Maybe not when she's needed him to. It shouldn't be new. He's seen the hospital. He's seen where she lives. At the same time though, there's this strange edge to his gaze as if he's expecting some large, grand secret to come out and spill. She doesn't know what to think. She doesn't know if she should even bother.

Suddenly, she feels like she's being selfish.

"You look tired."

He drops another observation, singled not to push but to stay.

She shifts in her seat and reaches for a napkin. Something to do with her hands. She's not expecting much. She never expects much. It's that sense of safety again. What bothers her is the proximity of the things that she knows against the life she's started to build here. Again, oddly enough.

The kind of awareness that she has here is almost singular. People know what she tells them, _chooses_ to tell them. She doesn't mean it to feel like this and suddenly, she's wonder if she's let these things take too much from her. There's a shaky feeling to everything.

"I am," she admits finally. "Working in the emergency room is a different pace. I like it. I like the kind of responsibility it brings. But, at the same time, I'm still not used to -"

"The hours?"

"No."

A truth and a lie. She doesn't know how to explain it. It's not House. It hasn't been House, not for a long time; signing up to do this is completely different. It was an offer and she took it. She likes Princeton. But all of this - Chase, the emergency room, even her position feels like an interim. She still feels a little stuck, waiting for that big move.

It makes her anxious, if she's honest.

"I don't know."

She starts again, picking at her napkin. "I'm trying to get used it."

 _Still_ , she doesn't add. It's settling nonetheless.

There are moments where she still misses it; not fiercely, not like the first time. But there's no longer that same, tense, and singular fascination that she's allowed to have. She's supposed to be quick, on her feet, and most of the time, most, people have to stay as names and dates and files and injuries. It's harder now. It's much harder now to keep her in that sense of thinking or really, if anything, go outside that.

"Ah."

He leaves at that. And she's sitting there, wanting the food to come. Or something; at best, she wishes that Chase would've come or decided to stop by. She wouldn't do that to him though. The last couple of weeks remain to be framed as odd for them both. Asking him would imply some level. It's how they are now, implications and guesses. Asking him would further that sensibility. She doesn't know how to or how to want to, for that matter. Her habits are rigid, too rigid, and there are some things that she's beginning to believe that she's not going change.

Her gaze settles on him though.

She's back to his scar, to the way it juts against his face. It's pink against his skin and she almost reaches forward, to touch it. There's a burn in her throat. She hates this. For once, the wrong questions are stronger in her head. Waiting, wanting. There's too much on her plate and she doesn't want it to bleed through - what's it been? It feels longer than it really is. Years, but not quite. Two shouldn't feel that much. There's a stronger number, but she can't remember and he's staring at her the same way.

She should be able to be open.

"I'm fine." Jamie's mouth slips into a smile. It doesn't reach his eyes. "Seriously. It's just a little bit weird to be back. And I know - really, I didn't mean to make you a little crazy with the letter -"

She shakes her head. "You didn't."

But he ignores her, like before. "I just wanted to be somewhere familiar, but not too familiar," he seems to add and then, for him, "I love you, you know? But I just I wanted to be somewhere where there's no questions. I don't - not that you don't care. But you get it. Space."

He's rambling again. His eyes are glassy. He's here, but not. There's a bit of redness. She doesn't know how she hadn't notice before. She almost reaches for him. Her instinct, away from the hospital, is to guess. Was he drinking? He's never touched the stuff. Or has he? An occasional beer, okay. But that's all that she can really remember. How long is he going to stick around this time? Is he sleeping? Probably not.

She still remembers the first time he came home. Awake for hours, he read. He taught himself how to play chess again. He used to be good. They watched a bunch of movies that they used to enjoy. He waited for her after a long night with House. It's never the same; he still laughs from time to time. She knows her parents are the same with their concern. She knows that's why he's here instead of there. There's never a straight memory of him either, of them and how they used to be. They've grown out of it, a passing fad if only.

They're predictable, at best.

"I mean - crazy letter aside - mom and dad miss you, Jamie. They've gotten over it."

She tries to mean it. There's this taste in her mouth, hypocritical and long. Any other time, she thinks, she might appreciate the irony.

She worked for House too long.

Her hands press into her face and she rubs it, sweeping her fingers under the bridges of her eyes to push the pressure away from herself for a little bit. She feels a little funny, here, and out of practice; it's stupid, if anything, because he's her brother and her brother's always, without fail, been honest and forthright with her – only in his own way.

"You have to understand that – I'm trying to understand."

She stops herself too, for the moment, choosing her words carefully. She remembers to tread carefully. She's trying to lecture.

"I _want_ to understand. I worry about you," she swallows, adding, "You hate it, I get it, but you haven't written much since you've been overseas or told any of us anything than you're okay, you'll be home again, and then when you're home again, you go back."

She's rambling now. It's a little more than she intends to let out. Her lips press and she looks down, eyeing the placement. She feels that sensation of unease, crawling back out of her throat. She's not at work, she reminds herself. On guard, waiting for something else to happen.

"I'm sorry." It's all he says to her.

They're quiet then.

The waitress comes, finally, just with a refill of their drinks. Water for them both. One by one, the girl picks up each glass. There's a shadow against the table, of the water, the bits that slid down from the glass. Cameron draws her fingers at the ends, tracing them in small circles. Jamie makes conversation with the waitress. She doesn't listen.

Wandering, her mind is back at work. Things are always changing there. There are papers to sift through. Budgets. Little things. Cuddy wants to meet with her at some point, this week or next. She can't remember, but she'll check in. There really isn't much to say.

"Are you sure you're okay with me staying here?"

She blinks, looking up. "Huh?"

"Are," he pauses, chuckling, "you sure you're _okay_ with me here?"

Her eyes widen and she reaches forward, smacking his arm. "Of course," she half-snaps. "Don't be stupid. My head's still at work. I'll be better on the weekend, swear."

There are no plans for the weekend, just conversations. _Conversations_ , she tells herself.

There's got to be some reason for all of this. But she's a little surprised that he would even ask. She's okay. She has to be. She's been better, sure. Jamie's here. Jamie's _here_ and there are things that might want to surface. She's not paranoid, she feels a little paranoid; it's House, she thinks again, the old habits that linger. She hates it. She still hates it. Chase has it. She's sure Foreman does too. Another rite of passage that she's learned to carry out of all of this. It's one of those things that are tattooed now, not permanent; a few lines, all the same.

And yet, she still stands with that sense of comfort that she has.

Anonymity. No questions asked. It's about interest and favor, moving processes along and keeping straight with the chaos. Nobody's interested in life stories. House was never interested in life stories or fragments, for that matter, unless it's allowed or convenient for his favor. It's how it works. Those things don't change for anything. She's kept the tradition. A part of her wonders what he might say?

Or doesn't. She doesn't need to. It's not important at all.

"I'll be better," she adds, short with words.

He smiles at her. It's there, just a little bit, and his gaze softens. Some days, he looks like their mother. Most days, he looks their father and the memory of things to do, things to prove, and all the moments that they were supposed to learn. She remembers that. She almost misses home. She's long given up on the right to pass herself into appealing to parents.

She has excuses. She's happy, most days.


	3. Chapter 3

At night, the hospital is more than sort of eerie.

After settling her brother at her place, she breaks and heads back into the work, operating under the understanding that there are still things to get done. They covered for her. A few favors seemed to help after all. She parks her car in the garage across the street, by the opening and the extension, sitting inside for just a minute.

"Damn it," she mutters.

There's a collective sense of unease. Here, she is who she is. Basic, on the blocks of just being another doctor; people don't expect protégées from House, they know casualties and there's that too. Those are the things that she can handle. Those are things that she understands.

But sitting in the car, she turns her gaze to the opening in front of her. It's a row of apartments. Lights on, lights off. Some of them are on-sale. Foreman made a joke, once and at a dinner, that she and Chase should think about it. Since they were doing okay or living at their jobs, as if it were all the same. People still don't believe, but that's a separate issue and for once, something that they do agree on, no one's business but their own.

The reality is simple; she doesn't know if she could do it.

Her brother, however, frames the focus of her thoughts. The letter is somewhere in her purse, at the bottom. She hasn't stopped June, she reminds herself. It was a little weird and something that she didn't let linger. He was worried though - she doesn't understand. Dinner - lunch, maybe – was all about Jamie apologizing for everything. A carbon copy of herself, years ago when she ran away grieving.

She can't bring herself to ask though.

There's no familiarity with saying things like _is it really as bad as it seems_ or _did something happen, do you want to talk about it_ in a series of questions that are supposed to sound boundlessly reassuring no matter how awkward or inappropriate they really are. She's got to go back home to him though and thinking about it, she doesn't even know how to practice saying anything. There isn't much to know.

He's been away. He's in the army. He's gone to different places, under different years, and she has a list of everything. The letters that she does have seem too old and few. There were emails too, stories and pictures. She might have some in storage. He's been here and there and seen things and doesn't know how to understand them even if he did ask her for help.

It's speculation. He'd never ask. She knows that much.

She knows _that_ much. It's almost too daunting to admit to herself, carrying things that she's not sure she wants to confront here and now. She hates that she's losing all sense of confidence with Jamie's appearance. It's not that she's not happy he's here. She's already, if anything, almost compulsively planning things that can help them catch up. There are things that she _does_ need from this, that makes her seem selfish.

She wants to have a bit of familiarity, to keep herself straight.

It's just that she's reminded of how detached she is from this, from him, and from her family, if she's honest. She can blame her husband's death and the immediate need to leave. To start again. To pretend, over and over, that nothing had happen when she really was completely devastated. She did that her way and in some regards, she still carries pieces of her regrets after all these years.

She sighs loudly. It echoes in the car. Behind her, another person passes to his. He's on the phone, murmuring into the echo of traffic that still heaves underneath them. She waits, tries not to count, and then reaches for her seatbelt. It detaches with a snap and hits her door loudly.

Sliding forward, finally, she gets out of the car. It's colder then she remembers, the briskness of the air hitting her and pulling at her coat. She tries to ignore it. Her hand reaches for her back of her neck and she presses her fingers into her skin. It's almost habit, her hand groping away for the new arch. Stress, she almost laughs. She straightens though and starts for the hospital, dragging her bag at her side.

It's just another night, she reassures herself.

* * *

The soda machines are at the end of the hall, hanging into the nook of space; they're too tall, scratching against the groove of the ceiling. It's the makeup of the hospital, every floor with pairs and rows of grooves of grieving seats and vending machines. There used to be food, on this level, but she can't remember why it changed.

House is standing there, frowning.

She doesn't feel surprised to see him. It's late. He's here and there, coming and going, more so in the later hours than anything else and that hasn't changed. She stops, short and unprepared, keeping herself quiet. It's a moment, not hers, and she's halfway into a turn. She hasn't seen him since - the direction of _that_ thought is over processed now, reassuringly so, and yet, running into him still holds that same, old habit of unease.

It's progressed into this odd, almost worn feeling of displacement. Another reminder, she thinks, of the things she's yet to really let go of. Is it letting go? She really doesn't care to push. She's starting to believe that there are some things that should just stay as they are.

"I can feel it in your eyes."

He drawls over _eyes_ , the smirk in his voice heavy. It echoes too, causing her to turn slightly, back into the hallway to see if there's anyone else there. He knows it's her and yet, there's still this habit of checking. She sighs, but stays where she is and watches as his hands slide against the arch of his cane. New, she thinks, or not. The wood seems darker. It could be the light or the angle. She needs to stop thinking about it.

But she shifts herself away from the wall.

She said _fifteen minutes_ to the nurse at the desk, her habit, left her with a few files, and a screeching seventeen year old in the corner, with friends, who got drunk and fell out of the tree. This is what she hides behind, she thinks and is almost amused; the mundane step of people's mistakes, the accidents stemming from predictability. Chance, is always possible, and much more frightening, but she's taught herself not to think about it.

That was medical school.

"You think," she shoots back finally, "if you stare at the machine long enough, magic might happened and you'll get a free soda from it. Or somebody."

She almost sees his mouth curl. Or she thinks she does. It's something that he carries, almost too comfortable with letting people see what they want to see. She remains out of practice with him though, strangely susceptible to different degrees of interaction with him. It's really beyond the idea of _yes_ and _no_ , stemming from the short, almost abrupt pull of separation. She's never had a clean break. Out of habit though, they remain to be old and predictable, as if he's pushing for comfort and she lets him. It's just that she doesn't like to be out of practice.

"You have your wallet."

She snorts. "No."

She holds up her hand, showing her the change that she clutches. She keeps some in her pocket, when she knows she's going to need it. She's still, in effect, waiting for the coffee from earlier to kick in.

He shrugs. "Whatever."

She half-expects him to move, but he doesn't. She can't remember the last time, outside of a patient; they've had a confrontation. Never conversations; she used to think, half-indulging in the things that he might say to her. It seems more than stupid now and exhaustion, facing the things and slips of moments that she used to carry around. It was a crush before, it is a crush, or not. There's never been any sense to distinguish her feelings.

She could agree with the others, half-suspecting that she's been in love with him for years. It would be nice, she thinks, to rest against that excuse. And maybe, she is. What she does know is that she doesn't like the parts of her that slip into the open, that she can't hold back as if she's been vulnerable to him all along. It works too well in the favor of a game.

She really doesn't know.

But she's not going down that way again. She doesn't have it in her.

"Here," he reaches forward, without cause, curling his fingers around her hand.

He's far from careful, his hand tightening clumsily over hers. He keeps it. She's not even thinking, wide-eyed. The pressure is strained, only lightly, and his fingers tuck easily over hers as he pulls her a little closer. His thumb rubs over the line of her nails and he looks at her, shifting back to fold his cane under his arm. He's pulling her fingers apart before it really occurs to her, pulling the change out of her palm. The pads of his fingers are warm and quick, skirting over the lines of her hand as he pulls the money into his.

"You're an _ass_ ," she snaps, flushing. Her hand is burning.

There's a soft chuckle. His mouth shifts, but he doesn't smirk and he dangles one of her quarters in between his fingertips. He's daring her to take it. Always daring, any chance he gets for old times' sake. It's a plague for all them, in every degree and it's easier, as a secret, to keep it at that. The three of them. To make it just her, to keep it at just her, makes it a very, very dangerous thing.

"You're a pal."

His voice is dry and cuts, even as he turns. "A _real_ pal."

He lingers though. There's a split second, an honest second, that he takes to watch her. She feels his gaze, as it presses over her, making sure that she sees him pull the change into hand and then his pocket as he turns away.

She half-expects him to pull the change back out, shoving it into the soda machine but he doesn't. Her fingers are still buzzing, warm, and she almost asks for it back, right then and there, but there's no sense of inclination to push further than what's occurred.

She holds back a sigh.

Instead, she watches as he moves forward. He's in her space again and stops. There's a shadow of a smirk, but it disappears as he just steps around her. She waits for a comment, steeling herself. There's nothing to expect and then there's something to expect, the promise there and not there. She thinks she hates that most about him with no reason at all, only the picks of her own vulnerability.

But he says nothing.

There's a burn in her throat. When she turns, he's gone instead.


	4. Chapter 4

At night, the hospital is more than sort of eerie.

After settling her brother at her place, she breaks and heads back into the work, operating under the understanding that there are still things to get done. They covered for her. A few favors seemed to help after all. She parks her car in the garage across the street, by the opening and the extension, sitting inside for just a minute.

"Damn it," she mutters.

There's a collective sense of unease. Here, she is who she is. Basic, on the blocks of just being another doctor; people don't expect protégées from House, they know casualties and there's that too. Those are the things that she can handle. Those are things that she understands.

But sitting in the car, she turns her gaze to the opening in front of her. It's a row of apartments. Lights on, lights off. Some of them are on-sale. Foreman made a joke, once and at a dinner, that she and Chase should think about it. Since they were doing okay or living at their jobs, as if it were all the same. People still don't believe, but that's a separate issue and for once, something that they do agree on, no one's business but their own.

The reality is simple; she doesn't know if she could do it.

Her brother, however, frames the focus of her thoughts. The letter is somewhere in her purse, at the bottom. She hasn't stopped June, she reminds herself. It was a little weird and something that she didn't let linger. He was worried though - she doesn't understand. Dinner - lunch, maybe – was all about Jamie apologizing for everything. A carbon copy of herself, years ago when she ran away grieving.

She can't bring herself to ask though.

There's no familiarity with saying things like _is it really as bad as it seems_ or _did something happen, do you want to talk about it_ in a series of questions that are supposed to sound boundlessly reassuring no matter how awkward or inappropriate they really are. She's got to go back home to him though and thinking about it, she doesn't even know how to practice saying anything. There isn't much to know.

He's been away. He's in the army. He's gone to different places, under different years, and she has a list of everything. The letters that she does have seem too old and few. There were emails too, stories and pictures. She might have some in storage. He's been here and there and seen things and doesn't know how to understand them even if he did ask her for help.

It's speculation. He'd never ask. She knows that much.

She knows _that_ much. It's almost too daunting to admit to herself, carrying things that she's not sure she wants to confront here and now. She hates that she's losing all sense of confidence with Jamie's appearance. It's not that she's not happy he's here. She's already, if anything, almost compulsively planning things that can help them catch up. There are things that she _does_ need from this, that makes her seem selfish.

She wants to have a bit of familiarity, to keep herself straight.

It's just that she's reminded of how detached she is from this, from him, and from her family, if she's honest. She can blame her husband's death and the immediate need to leave. To start again. To pretend, over and over, that nothing had happen when she really was completely devastated. She did that her way and in some regards, she still carries pieces of her regrets after all these years.

She sighs loudly. It echoes in the car. Behind her, another person passes to his. He's on the phone, murmuring into the echo of traffic that still heaves underneath them. She waits, tries not to count, and then reaches for her seatbelt. It detaches with a snap and hits her door loudly.

Sliding forward, finally, she gets out of the car. It's colder then she remembers, the briskness of the air hitting her and pulling at her coat. She tries to ignore it. Her hand reaches for her back of her neck and she presses her fingers into her skin. It's almost habit, her hand groping away for the new arch. Stress, she almost laughs. She straightens though and starts for the hospital, dragging her bag at her side.

It's just another night, she reassures herself.

* * *

The soda machines are at the end of the hall, hanging into the nook of space; they're too tall, scratching against the groove of the ceiling. It's the makeup of the hospital, every floor with pairs and rows of grooves of grieving seats and vending machines. There used to be food, on this level, but she can't remember why it changed.

House is standing there, frowning.

She doesn't feel surprised to see him. It's late. He's here and there, coming and going, more so in the later hours than anything else and that hasn't changed. She stops, short and unprepared, keeping herself quiet. It's a moment, not hers, and she's halfway into a turn. She hasn't seen him since - the direction of _that_ thought is over processed now, reassuringly so, and yet, running into him still holds that same, old habit of unease.

It's progressed into this odd, almost worn feeling of displacement. Another reminder, she thinks, of the things she's yet to really let go of. Is it letting go? She really doesn't care to push. She's starting to believe that there are some things that should just stay as they are.

"I can feel it in your eyes."

He drawls over _eyes_ , the smirk in his voice heavy. It echoes too, causing her to turn slightly, back into the hallway to see if there's anyone else there. He knows it's her and yet, there's still this habit of checking. She sighs, but stays where she is and watches as his hands slide against the arch of his cane. New, she thinks, or not. The wood seems darker. It could be the light or the angle. She needs to stop thinking about it.

But she shifts herself away from the wall.

She said _fifteen minutes_ to the nurse at the desk, her habit, left her with a few files, and a screeching seventeen year old in the corner, with friends, who got drunk and fell out of the tree. This is what she hides behind, she thinks and is almost amused; the mundane step of people's mistakes, the accidents stemming from predictability. Chance, is always possible, and much more frightening, but she's taught herself not to think about it.

That was medical school.

"You think," she shoots back finally, "if you stare at the machine long enough, magic might happened and you'll get a free soda from it. Or somebody."

She almost sees his mouth curl. Or she thinks she does. It's something that he carries, almost too comfortable with letting people see what they want to see. She remains out of practice with him though, strangely susceptible to different degrees of interaction with him. It's really beyond the idea of _yes_ and _no_ , stemming from the short, almost abrupt pull of separation. She's never had a clean break. Out of habit though, they remain to be old and predictable, as if he's pushing for comfort and she lets him. It's just that she doesn't like to be out of practice.

"You have your wallet."

She snorts. "No."

She holds up her hand, showing her the change that she clutches. She keeps some in her pocket, when she knows she's going to need it. She's still, in effect, waiting for the coffee from earlier to kick in.

He shrugs. "Whatever."

She half-expects him to move, but he doesn't. She can't remember the last time, outside of a patient; they've had a confrontation. Never conversations; she used to think, half-indulging in the things that he might say to her. It seems more than stupid now and exhaustion, facing the things and slips of moments that she used to carry around. It was a crush before, it is a crush, or not. There's never been any sense to distinguish her feelings.

She could agree with the others, half-suspecting that she's been in love with him for years. It would be nice, she thinks, to rest against that excuse. And maybe, she is. What she does know is that she doesn't like the parts of her that slip into the open, that she can't hold back as if she's been vulnerable to him all along. It works too well in the favor of a game.

She really doesn't know.

But she's not going down that way again. She doesn't have it in her.

"Here," he reaches forward, without cause, curling his fingers around her hand.

He's far from careful, his hand tightening clumsily over hers. He keeps it. She's not even thinking, wide-eyed. The pressure is strained, only lightly, and his fingers tuck easily over hers as he pulls her a little closer. His thumb rubs over the line of her nails and he looks at her, shifting back to fold his cane under his arm. He's pulling her fingers apart before it really occurs to her, pulling the change out of her palm. The pads of his fingers are warm and quick, skirting over the lines of her hand as he pulls the money into his.

"You're an _ass_ ," she snaps, flushing. Her hand is burning.

There's a soft chuckle. His mouth shifts, but he doesn't smirk and he dangles one of her quarters in between his fingertips. He's daring her to take it. Always daring, any chance he gets for old times' sake. It's a plague for all them, in every degree and it's easier, as a secret, to keep it at that. The three of them. To make it just her, to keep it at just her, makes it a very, very dangerous thing.

"You're a pal."

His voice is dry and cuts, even as he turns. "A _real_ pal."

He lingers though. There's a split second, an honest second, that he takes to watch her. She feels his gaze, as it presses over her, making sure that she sees him pull the change into hand and then his pocket as he turns away.

She half-expects him to pull the change back out, shoving it into the soda machine but he doesn't. Her fingers are still buzzing, warm, and she almost asks for it back, right then and there, but there's no sense of inclination to push further than what's occurred.

She holds back a sigh.

Instead, she watches as he moves forward. He's in her space again and stops. There's a shadow of a smirk, but it disappears as he just steps around her. She waits for a comment, steeling herself. There's nothing to expect and then there's something to expect, the promise there and not there. She thinks she hates that most about him with no reason at all, only the picks of her own vulnerability.

But he says nothing.

There's a burn in her throat. When she turns, he's gone instead.

### Part Four

It's funny how none of this unravels in any particular way.

The morning is quiet, almost too quiet, and she wakes up to her alarm clock scattering silently against the wall. The numbers are almost coarse; she's been doing this a lot lately, waking up before she plans to and the silence, almost indefinitely draws her down into thoughts that she just doesn't need. She stays in bed though, shifting up and sliding her hands against the blankets. Her space, she thinks, she likes her space. It's always been that way.

Outside, there's a loud horn. The neighbor's car, again, and she hears snippets of conversation pass and go, aging only with the routine of her day. She should start breakfast. She should make coffee – does she have coffee? She can't remember the last time she went to the market. She went the day before.

Today, though, she's more than aware of her brother stuck in the next room over. It's strange and more than unnerving; the idea that two facets of her life are too close, too soon, and the only thing that makes any sense seems to draw further and further away from her. The hospital is just as it is, something to change and to lose and that, if anything, carries more weight than having pieces of her life, real and standing here.

Sliding out of bed, she reaches for a cardigan and goes to start breakfast. She'll run tomorrow, she thinks. Take a break. She needs coffee more. She has a later night tonight again, getting closer to the end of the month and the things that come too easily with it. She's got things ready; as she is, always too prepared and needing it to be a necessary faction of her life. But she wonders about her brother too - what is she going to do? Say no? She's never said no and yet, here, it feels like they're becoming strangers, more and more, despite the sudden visit and his presence.

A part of her still thinks she should call her parents. Just to say that Jamie's here. Her memories, much like the ones that she has when she lost her husband, are so scattered from the first time he left. They were angry. _She_ was angry. But something happened between her brother and her parents that has created this distance and made it this bad.

It was never supposed to be this bad.

Rubbing her eyes, she steps out to the living room. It's still dark, the shades only drawing out pieces of lights. She pauses for a moment, her hands pressing into her hips and surveys the room. There's mail, from yesterday, and a journal that she still hasn't touched. She's been thinking about writing again.

"Hey."

She jumps eyes wide. "Jesus," she breathes, her fingers fisting against her sweater. "Jamie, don't do that. You scared the hell out of me."

He's in the kitchen already. There's a sliver of a smile. It stretches against his mouth, but like before, seems content to stay away from his eyes. He's standing strangely, shoulders straight and just as hunched as yesterday. Her worry is bitter too, thick against her throat, and he seems to be able to tell, looking down.

"I was going to make breakfast."

He offers, waving a hand to the kitchen. "But I don't know where anything is. It's not like the last place and I know how you get - I just - yeah."

His hands curl at his side and she reaches forward, taking one and curling it around his. She waits, wanting him to take it back, do something familiar. She only feels his hand tighten more.

 _I have questions_. She's always wanted to say that – he's never asked and the obligation, if anything, remains faithful to silence. They're there for each other in their own ways, never enough sometimes, but is enough for the moment.

It's what she's brought here.

She sighs.

"Do you want to talk about it?" – Finally. It sounds so funny coming from her, too dry and too spaced; this is your brother, she tells herself. There's too much of a sense of removal that sits with her. She hates it.

She hates that she feels this here.

"No."

His answer is almost as fast as hers, cutting and simple. He looks up at her, his eyes hard. She feels it again, that sense of detachment that's driven them both to their places here. It's too real, again, and she wonders if this is how the others see her. If this is why she's still losing pieces and moments, and unable, really to give anything more. She doesn't know why. She doesn't know how.

He seems to struggle for a moment, his teeth sinking into his lip. She does the same thing too; it's a mirror, if anything, and odd, amassing in an uncomfortable, almost comical sort of way.

"I think," he says quietly, "I'm going to go lay down again - okay?"

The breakfast idea is gone. She nods, with nothing else to give back, dropping her hand and curling her arms to her chest. He steps back, sighs, and then steps forward again. Cupping her face, he kisses her forehead and smiles a little. She feels it stretch against her skin, lingering as he draws back.

It feels like halfway, a hand that _she_ should be extending.

"I'll let you know when I go."

It's the only thing she offers, watching him nod too and then step back, returning to his room.

She sighs. It really wasn't like this before.


	5. Chapter 5

"Dr. Cameron, I need you to look at this -"

A large file is shoved in front of her, papers flipping and waving as her hand settles with a pen. She's here and there, keeping busy and trying not to think about her brother at home. He said he was going to be okay; it's the mantra that she has, hardly a reassurance, but something, instead of nothing at all.

"Thanks," she murmurs.

They're busy in the afternoon, little clusters of people that keep coming in. Stomach pains. A car accident - nothing large, just minor bruises and a brace that's been needed. There are people, too that really shouldn't be here either. Family, pushed to the side, as their particular worry stretches out and over a bed. A few more are sent to better departments, passes of long standing symptoms and things that she still feels the draw to take on as her own to diagnose. She has her moments, just like anyone else, but seems, still, to be able to interact with people on a much stronger basis.

 _Stability_ , she told Cuddy once. _I like the stability_.

She means it too. There's a sense of things here that she's never had before. It isn't confidence and it _is_ confidence, the back and forth between things that she's grown into and others, if anything, that she's picked up as her own.

Reaching for another file, she heads over and does a sweep of the beds. It's not like the clinic; this particular chaos is branched out into different degrees, drawing heavily on the confidence and the push of the people here. She's grateful, if anything, that she has this kind of staff behind her. It's the one thing that House did teach her - while there were particular levels that she keeps with herself, her management and organization all stems from teaching herself to do the absolute opposite of all the things that he did.

"Doctor -"

She's grabbed, by the arm, and by a boy. His eyes are wide, a little red, and she feels his fingers tremble into her skin. He can't be more than seventeen with parental punishment stricken across his face. She takes a breath and then smiles, just a little.

"Can I help you?" She's calm. "Is someone with you?"

He shakes his head hard, pointing back to a little girl that sits in one of the beds. She's without a gown, swinging her legs happily over the edge of the bed. Her hair is parted in pigtails and a tiny, almost distant smile stretches across her mother. Sister, she thinks, daughter? It's happened before.

She gently pries the boy's hands from her arm, stepping forward and reaching for the chart by the bed. She bites her lip, scanning over the information. No allergies. Good health. They were left alone, it seems.

"Hi."

She looks down at the little girl, the boy coming over and standing next to them. She kneels a little, quietly scanning her over as well. There's a cut on her leg, split open like a mouth, and dried blood crusted against her skin. It's deep, but not alarmingly so. The little girl sighs loudly and then leans forward, motioning for her to come closer.

"I wanted to climb the tree," she whispers loudly, looking up at the boy and then at her, "and I didn't get very far. Mattie's scared because he doesn't want to get into trouble. I think he's sick too. Can you make Mattie better?"

Cameron laughs softly, nodding. "I think so."

Her hands are already working, slow and gentle; her fingers brush over the girl's leg as she reaches for gauze to clean the injury. It's not about puzzles here, or pins and needles and the draw of getting the _right_ answer. Here, it's people and the way their faces change, the charge of how to say things and what not to say. There's a particular sense of awareness that is needed. She feels forever on the border, comfortable with going between the lines. She doesn't know how to be just one thing without the other.

She glances too, briefly at the boy and watching as, at no time, he doesn't seem to relax. Her lips curl and she looks back at the little girl.

"Is Mattie your brother?"

The little girl nods. "Uh-huh. M'Lizzy. Like Elizabeth, but Lizzy. 'cause I like Lizzy better. It's almost like Mattie but spelled differently and with an l and like love."

The older boy grunts. "Liz -"

Cameron shakes her head. "It's fine," she murmurs, smiling a little.

She listens, instead, to the little girl and the tale of the tree climbing fiasco; she's animated and grinning, waving her hands even and making her brother laugh too. She watches them, as her finish, dropping herself briefly into a memory and then pulling back. Not here, she thinks. Not here.

But it isn't that simple. The two kids look to be no more than five, six years apart. The little girl obviously adores her brother, disappointed that her stunt went nowhere near to working. _I can sympathize_ , she almost says. Tries to. She has stories of her brother and her, of the trouble, back then, when they used to be close.

Used to be close. They're still close, she thinks. They're still close. Almost.

When she finishes, she stands and takes a moment to look at the brother again. She tries not to live in the memory of the moment, of her moments, and then offers a tiny smile for him. It happens on occasion. There _will_ be a couple, older or younger. There are children. Sparks of memories and faces that she's tried to keep completely away from all of this.

It's not that easy.

"Okay, guys."

She smiles again, pointing over to the nurses' desk. "Head over there and they'll take care of you," she continues, ruffling the little girl's hair. "See you and try not to give your brother a heart attack, okay?"

The girl giggles and the brother smiles too, a little tight, taking her hand and leading her away from the bed and Cameron. She watches them go, sighing quietly. She leans back against the bed, just for a second, pressing her hand to her face. She wasn't supposed to be doing this, she thinks, or was she? It's never seems to make any particular sense when she thinks about it, what she misses and what she doesn't miss.

There is more flexibility to this aspect of the job. The hours, still strange, do allow a lot of what she didn't have with House. Then again, she signed up to be with the best. She took from it what she could. She's grateful, mostly, and the level of responsibility is something that feels familiar and strange all at the same time. She likes it and she doesn't; it's almost inevitable and how, if anything, she worries about all of this. About her job, about her family.

About the things that she can't say.

It's becoming about whatever is the _easiest_.

* * *

The cafeteria is a different spread, during the day, with thicker clusters of people that sway back and forth, moving in different degrees with different faces.

She's with Chase, quiet, and reading the paper. Her phone sits against her tray and occasionally, hoping that he's not watching, she's looking to the time. She's called home. Jamie's okay. Reading, he said. She still can't help the occasional twist in her stomach, the way that several scenarios seem to rise and fall and drift back and forth. She thinks about Jamie's moment this morning.

She's still worried. She doesn't know what to do.

"How is he?"

Chase breaks the silence first, reaching for her hand. She looks up and it drops, his fingers twisting into a fist. She feels her own hand tighten and then pulls it away, under the table and into her lap. She almost apologizes. But she does a lot of that - apologizing, drifting back and forth between understanding the things that she did wrong and the things that she didn't. Or doesn't. These days, it doesn't seem to matter.

For a minute though, her brow furrows.

"Wait, what?"

He sighs, annoyed. "How's your brother?"

There's a sense of anticipation written against his face, his mouth twisting as she sighs. He shakes his head, almost as if he expects it. She does it back. They're doing it again, fighting more. There are these little moments that they have, moments where she thinks she's ready, but then they fall back. She thinks that it has to do with her being here, with him being back _here_ , and the things that they used to talk about when the left. Between them, there's a lot more unresolved weight than she'd like to think.

He hadn't wanted to come back. He still doesn't want to be back. She doesn't get it, but he's doing well. He's doing really well. Then again, neither of them seems to want to ask anymore.

"How's – oh," she pauses, shrugging. "He's okay. I haven't really had a chance to ask him about things. He doesn't want to talk about it."

"Well, considering."

"I know."

That hurts. He's looking at her like he gets and she doesn't, the level of understanding transitioning. She hates that. She hates the way the little things even seem to get to them. She's never thought of it as the two of them, just the two of them, and a list of what to do and how to do it. They don't have plans. They've never talked about marriage or families. The closest, really, that he's come to talk about family is when he's laughed and said some bad, crass joke about him and kids.

She doesn't know if she wants them either. Or doesn't. She's yet to come to the right sense of self and the frame of mind that she's meant to have with that aspect of her life. Kids, her? With this kind of job? It's not that she's never thought about it. Marriage again. Kids. There's more of an uncertainty, over both aspects, that she's completely unsure of where to start dealing with it.

"You call your parents?"

His voice cuts again, breaking her thoughts. She feels her fingers curl and then pushes them together, letting her hands twist in her lap. They're cold, coarse, and she thinks about heading home early. She'd have to come back though. Maybe, she and Jamie can talk for a little while. Maybe, she should tell him to go -

"No."

Her mouth twists, coming back to the conversation. She shrugs too, looking up at him. She watches as the sympathy sort of progresses. It rises and falls, dropping between them like a secondary weight. She feels like a child when he watches her like that. She feels like he's doing it to point out things to keep that step ahead of her.

They've been doing more of that too.

She shakes her head, starting again. "No."

"Cameron," Chase says softly. "You should call them. You know how your mother gets."

She doesn't like how he says that – and he does it a lot, curtailing around the relationship that she has with her parents and seemingly manipulating it into something that he thinks he understands. It's not about whether or not she loves him, whether or not they're okay, it's become less about them and more about the things that they can compete with.

On the surface, they seem to stay stronger with generalizations and moments that can keep to this atmosphere. She swallows, trying not to think about it – ultimately, they've been defined by how they've survived being _here_.

"I do."

Her mouth is tight. "Believe me, I do. But this has nothing to do with that."

She looks away. The cafeteria has seemingly dropped into silence, occasional murmurs rising from different ends of the area. The sun is driving against the windows and she looks to the outside, watching the foot traffic clump and then thin. It's at least, three, she thinks. Her watch is upstairs in her locker.

She sees House head in, Wilson following. Her mouth tips into brief amusement as she watches the two men. There's that the easy, perplexed look that Wilson seems to be back into wearing. She doesn't feel that strange anxiousness she used to have watching them. Passing phase, she thinks. His reluctance, at any rate, has everything and nothing to do with House. She remembers that conversation that they had.

"House looks bored."

Her throat dries. Chase catches her watching them, halfway between a smirk and a sigh. She shrugs and then looks away. Briefly, she remembers the conversation from the other night.

"He always looks bored," she murmurs.

"I'm trying to make conversation with you."

He's pointed and nowhere near apologetic, dropping his mouth back into a frown. She waits for him to stand - this is the part, she thinks, that he does it. He never seems to stray away from this formula they have to their relationship, almost as if they are, in fact, back to working under House.

"No, you're not."

She leaves it at that, hoping that he'll let it go too. She's told him time and time again, that she doesn't want to fight, that she doesn't have it in her to do rounds and rounds of this. It's never far from the tension and she almost wishes, if anything, that they were back at that point.

It seems silly now. _I cleaned out a drawer._

He starts at it again. "We don't talk," he says simply. "You don't –"

He bites hard, taking the pause. There's a sense of predictability with his reaction, only imposed with consideration in terms of how they've been at each other lately. He seems to be waiting for her, ready go her return of the argument. For the sake of arguing; as if it's the most honest, if anything, they are with each other. It's all they do – strange, really, how regret comes and stands the conversation. Lately, it's been the two of them pitting themselves against each other, here and there, strained slightly under the safety of work.

She's losing footing.

She wants to feel that again – the charge, _that_ charge. She wants to feel that sense of change and momentum. It seems so ridiculous to push; _I cleaned out a drawer_ , she had said. She meant it too. A little tired, a little too willing -

"I'm sorry."

It's his turn to say it. "Are you?"

She looks away, following the line of empty tables. House spots her. She tries to roll her eyes. He blinks first and she watches as he smirks back at her. Her mouth twists a little and she lets it fade, forcing herself to look back at Chase.

"I don't want to do this with you," she says. "I'm sorry. There are just some things and you know it – I don't ask you about your parents."

It slips before she realizes it. His eyes are dark, his gaze too heavy and standing easily. She feels herself tense. Her shoulders rise and rest tightly, her hand instinctively stretching back to rub against her neck.

He quiets. "You don't bring my parents up."

"You don't want to talk about them."

It's true, in its own way, and also the only thing she has. She's defensive, at best, and standing in the same place as he is – only to know little snippets and pieces. Only wanting to keep it that way. It seems like the only way they can function and yet, at the same time, it does a lot better working against them.

"It's not the same."

"No, it's not," she agrees.

She forces herself to keep it like that, listening to him sigh instead. Her gaze takes the same path, over the empty tables. It's different, the little fragments of things that are standing, almost ghostly, as she's more aware of them at night when she's here. She does better here, at night. But there's a few people lingering against the glass, outside, and her eyes return to where House and Wilson were standing.

But they're gone.


	6. Chapter 6

In the car, the lights of the road decide to simmer and blur. It feels like fog and the water slips into her glass, dancing wildly with the changes in pace that she continues to push for herself.

The radio is on. It amounts to nothing more than a distraction, driving the base of a beat that she should know but doesn't. All the beats, right now, sound the same. Have been for a while.

"Call mom," she tells herself, trying. "Don't forget."

There are groceries and bills, things that she really has no excuse to forget. She shouldn't be able to forget. She should be able to keep going.

Her eyes ache, tired and aware; she carries the day in her shoulders, the range of patients and the argument, especially, that she's had with Chase. She doesn't go near it. There are more important things at home. There's Jamie. Her brother is that priority as it should be.

She still moves slowly.

The streetlamps run at her side, two by two, a reminder of how far the comforts of her own routine have gotten from her. She should be able to step back into it. But the glow, the press of lights into car, does take away the distraction of the radio. She doesn't know the song.

She's tired. She doesn't try to remember.

* * *

There's a note on the table, when she gets home.

She doesn't call out, she just knows; a part of her has been waiting for him to fall into that pattern of his routine. There are things that she _does_ remember, pieces and places that they do have in common; he's seen the worst of her, she's seen the worst of him, and that, in itself, shares a frightening stand against a lot of the things that she has going on here. The two of them are the same, just like that, and Jamie likes to do things quietly.

But she doesn't touch the note yet.

There's tightness in her throat that she doesn't understand. She drops her keys on the counter, her coat, and her bag and looks around. She only turned on the light at the front and thinks about things in fragments; there are things to be done, still, and there are notes and files and people to call. Remember, she tells herself, _you_ were thinking about writing. Writing _again_.

But she thinks about Chase instead, moving around the room and starting to straighten things. She's got to call him. She won't. She doesn't want to. There's House, in her head, and the sudden onslaught of oddness in their relationship. Halfway between old habits and none, she feels that strain of that old dance. Back and forth, back and forth, she's always hated metaphors. She still doesn't understand the face that they're giving each other.

Her couch is old. The same one from medical school. She keeps a few things. That apartment, she remembers, was crap. Her mouth twists and she falls into a smile, shaking her head. She stops though, picking up a pillow – there are things that she has, still has, and things that she's been meaning to get rid of.

It just never catches her right.

Bringing her hands to her face, she presses them over her eyes. She takes the moment, sighing quietly as she turns over all the thoughts in her head. She's never really asked herself _is this where I'm supposed to be_ ; it's strange, coming now, with the reemergence of tiny characteristics that she's always thought she's left behind. It's supposed to mean something, she thinks, with her brother here. And yet, she knows, more than anything else, it's supposed to stay away from meaning anything at all.

It's better that way. Safer. She's not supposed to keep any of this to herself. She's supposed to be better about moving on.

Funny, how some things like to remain the same.

Finally, stepping back, she heads over to the table. Her fingers curl around the note and she picks it up, sighing.

 _Hey. Went out. I took the spare key - just like you said._

It's simple. It's like him – finally, some sense of familiarity surfaces. Something else does too. It's guilt. It's not guilt. But she feels like she should've been around earlier, come home and then gone back.

She's never around for a _be careful_. It never seems to be enough.

It's always a late night, after all.


	7. Chapter 7

The next morning, the apartment lets her leave in silence.

She does check on Jamie, half-skewed across his bed and the smell of alcohol drifting from his mouth to the door, almost as if it were still carrying the reminder of how they never did talk. The cigarettes are there, smell and a box posted on the table next to him. She didn't know that he smoke. She's almost anxious enough to go and take them, hide them or throw them away. She leaves them though, intent and promising herself that she's going to talk to him tonight, that she needs to, at least before he heads out or back - that's what he does too. He leaves. He's good at leaving.

But then again, she does leaving well too.

Work is quiet, too quiet for her when she enters, a cluster of people grouping and then disbanding, dancing in between each other. There's this sense of chaos that is waiting and that will greet her, only when she reemerges upstairs. She sighs softly - it's time to leave everything back at home anyway.

She heads to the elevator, her hand sliding into her pocket. Her fingers curl, sliding against her phone. There's a small reassurance, only waiting for her even as she shifts back and forth on both her feet. She presses the button for the elevator and then again, waiting.

"Hey."

Chase's voice is tight, tense, and his hand brushes against the back of her arm. His knuckles slide along the length, pressing against her coat and she bites her lip, leaning into him only out of habit. It's what they do.

She doesn't look up, instead taking his gaze in the blur of a reflection against the elevator doors. It's easy to take the circles under his eyes. He hasn't been sleeping, shifting back and forth against the sudden rush of his job. He likes it. He hates it. He's still angry with House. He just can't decide.

All of it is familiar between them, at the very least.

"I don't have time today," she murmurs. She means it too. Today is about Jamie. Today's about getting out of here as quickly and as necessary as possible. She doesn't want him to go, if he goes, or think that she's pressing this away from him. She doesn't want to lose him.

Her parents and her have already taken too many steps back.

"How long's he staying?"

Surprised, she looks up at him. There's a tiny smile written into his mouth; the concern is genuine, never less than. They have that. At least, it should serve as something makes the strain a little easier. But it's there. It's always been there in al of them - and that's the thing. The only difference between her relationship with Chase and Foreman is that Chase knows only a little bit more about her and the intimacy, however much of an exchange it can be, is exactly that. Always moving.

"I don't know."

She's honest, shrugging. "I said as long as he needed to," she bites her lip, "we really haven't said anything or agreed to anything past that. And he can stay as long as he needs to. He's my brother."

She waits for it, for the _I know_ , the instance that Chase has been carrying. But it doesn't come. Instead, he turns his gaze down. Again, his fingers are pressing into her arm. Rubbing up and down, up and down, and drawing her a little closer. They don't hide - people know they're together. The nurses favor them in bits of gossip, generalizing wedding plans and coos of _ooos_ and _ahhhs_. It seems like that's all they ever seem to do.

There are just too many shades of them, too many things that they do hide behind.

"I'm here late tonight."

His mouth tightens. "Some things to do, I guess."

He's trying to play the nonchalance and turns to look at her again. She nods her okay, shrugging and offering nothing in return. The argument yesterday is still fresh in her head. She hates it, but it's the truth. It's what she has. It seems petty, but it creates that necessary space that she has to have, between the two of them, between her and everyone else. She hates it, most days. But she understands the necessity.

"I know you're angry."

 _Do you?_ She doesn't ask. The elevator doors open and spread, letting a few people out. In turn, the two of them step forward and hit separate floors. Separate places, separate floors - Chase used to make a joke, in the beginning, about all of this.

"I know," he repeats, as the door closes again, "you're angry and I get that a lot of it has nothing to do with me. I - we should talk about things, you know? I think we should talk about things."

"Chase."

She's trying to stop this, but he cuts off any chance and reaches for her, his fingers curling around her arms. He doesn't press or pull the weight of his hand, but it's more than enough to keep her tense. Some days, she's okay. More days, she's not; he's yet to understand, to completely understand, how funny she is about space and what she knows to be space. She doesn't mean to be pushing, but, if anything, it's the only thing she really has at all.

"Wait."

He tugs her close. "I want you to know that I'm here and I don't meant to push, but I'm here. I don't want you to think that I'm _not_ here. I know you, you try and take on the world with all this crap and it's just not fair."

He stops, his hand pressing against her face. His fingers spread over her cheek, sliding lightly against the curve of her jaw. She waits quietly, watching and then not. She can't do it like this. She doesn't want to do it like this.

He sighs and she doesn't say anything. Not yet, not now; impassioned as it was, there's nothing to say back to him. What can she? He's just as bad as she is. It's not that she doesn't want to talk to him. People forget. He walks around pissed off and angry, holding grudges that are completely and utterly unnecessary, but are there nonetheless. She can keep saying it – she doesn't know what else to say.

She told him once too, but he threw something back at her regarding House and her own steps, weak and less imposing. She doesn't have any regrets though. She's allowed to miss it. She's allowed to not miss it. There are going to be days. There's such a large difference between the two words, between she knew then and what she knows now. She's okay with that.

She's just having too many days.

The elevator stops, the floor ringing between them. His stop is first. She tugs her arm away from his, pulling it back and over her chest with a sigh. She fights herself and smiles, her mouth twisting as she looks up to him. She doesn't want to fight, she keeps reminding herself. She just doesn't want to fight.

"Fine," she says quietly.

She leaves it at that, but he steps out first.

She turns away before he even turns the corner.

* * *

There's a moment in the day where she just has to stop.

It comes hard, writing over the tension that she carries against her shoulders. The pressure arches into her neck, uncurling and facing the draw of her anxiety.

"Fifteen minutes," she mutters to a nurse. It's starting to marry as a habit.

She takes the step outside, into the hallway; an eerie glow seems to follow her, facing the walls in this crisp, blank white that stares heavily at her. She sighs softly, leaning into the wall. There's no patient, no little girl, no family. It just hits. She thinks of her brother at home and the memory, thick and true, of alcohol that seems to do nothing more than crawl up and down her throat with no problem at all.

She hates this.

There was never a tree for her, but a bike and maybe, on a good day, there were the other little things. Running hard to catch up. Reading just as fast. She did idolize her brother, in her own way. She doesn't blame him for leaving, for doing what he wanted to do. It's just how they've always been.

At the same time, having him here unearths a mix of shallow tensions. They crawl, like the memory of that smell, and march around, almost parading the runs of her anxieties. She hates this; she hates how this feels, neither here nor there, but just waiting. She doesn't know why it's just _waiting_.

"Dr. Cameron?"

A nurse comes out, just to check on her. One of the newer ones, she remembers. Young; she comes in and out, a rotation necessary with the kind of staff that they do have. She manages a smile though, curling her mouth as she shakes her head and straightens, only to lean against the wall.

"I'm fine."

She's glad it's a new one. The new nurses don't talk. Selfishly, she just doesn't want it to get back to Chase. She doesn't want to have another fight, or another if you talk to me moment. She doesn't know if she can handle that. She doesn't know if she wants to handle it. She should go home, at lunch, and, if anything, maybe there can be a chance to talk to Jamie.

The nurse is still standing there, very much concerned. Oh god, she thinks. She's almost amused - what if the pregnancy rumors start up again? Her mouth twists and she shakes her head.

"Didn't sleep very well last night," she offers, gently, turning her hand to tug at her ponytail. "I think working late last week finally decided to catch up with me."

The nurse smiles then, as if she understands, nodding and stepping back. She waves a little and she can only imagine - _Dr. Cameron might actually be pregnant. Dr. Chase and Cameron and breaking up. Poor girl._ Those things she can laugh at. It's easy. She makes fun of herself with no problem. It's everything else; unable to really gauge where she fits in with everything else.

"I'll let them know you're okay," the nurse says. "The girls were worried."

She nods, trying not to snort. Her lips curl slightly, "Sure."

The nurse takes a step back, offering a goodbye. When she turns, the doors back to the emergency room snap open. It's a heavy sound; a pop that cracks louder than it should. Cameron feels her mouth start to tense again.

Instead, there's a steady stream of people. It's chaotic, the chorus of voice starting level and greet her outside. She's already thinking of the things that she needs to do, now and tomorrow, next week and at the end of the month. The quickness is almost crass, amused at how quickly she's tensed.

When the doors close, everything fades again. Her ears are still ringing.

* * *

Jacket in hand, she head out of the locker room and tries to remember if she's forgotten anything. If there's _anything_ to forget.

She's tired. Her mouth is tight and lined, still angry about the degrees of back and forth that she and Chase have been playing together. She hates it, but what can she do - there's nothing more than a _he, she started it_ and going through that again is far from worth it.

She's digging into her pocket, pulling out a few, stray pieces of change for a drink before home. Lunch has already passed, so with dinner in mind, she thinks that she could go and take Jamie somewhere nice. But first, a drink. Coffee, even. She could go down to the cafeteria, but she doesn't want to run into anybody or talk to anybody else, heading straight for the soda machines on the floor.

House is starting to walk past her.

Her mouth tightens, twists, but he barely glances back at her. There's no sense of acknowledgment and her shoulders relax, lowering as she passes him.

"Hey."

Or not, she thinks.

She stops, turning slightly. She waits for that obnoxious, almost imposing drawl of her name. But he's just standing there, studying her, as if he were waiting for her to push back. She blinks, confused, and shrugs, all the same, as if to say that she doesn't know anything at all.

"Hello," she murmurs.

His mouth curls slightly, his amusement more than obvious. He steps forward again, but she ignores him, still aware of him following her to the soda machine.

"So I met a guy at the bar."

He's teasing her. It's like a joke. She's not exactly sure how she's supposed to respond. Last night, it was the same thing - she's almost beginning to think of these moments as funny, crazy or not, and the way they still seem to walk into each other like this. She doesn't mean to, but it still seems to churn in its own direction. The case, months ago, was nothing more than incidental, and the little minutes that spun out were merely to subdue boredom, all on his end.

She doesn't want to talk what's happened recently, preferring to reengage herself with what she knows and what has stayed faithful to her. Familiarity is comfort at its best.

"What?"

But she can't help but be concerned, the sharpness in his voice making her stop and tense, underwriting any sense of quiet that she had been hoping to get before she heads home. He leans against the wall, watching her, and all she can think about is the locker room and how it's only a few turns in the other direction.

"A guy," he drawls, "at the bar."

Jamie. _Jamie_. Her eyes widen and she doesn't know how he knows or how she just knows, her mouth parting with her surprise. She waits for a comment, for something to progress on his part because this is more in his favor. She doesn't want it, she doesn't need it, and yet, if he knows, if he knows, she doesn't know what she's going to do - she doesn't know what she needs to go and do.

"Oh," she winces quietly, looking away.

The change in her head is heavy, almost unsettling as it presses into her palm. There's a chuckle, on his end, the sound thick and amused.

"Yeah."

He shrugs. "He drank me under the table. Talked too much too."

Her eyes close. Right, she thinks, _right_ \- there's such a thrust of discomfort, suddenly taking her and twisting. She doesn't know what to do, her thoughts wandering away. What is he going to say? Why is she worried? There are still pieces of her life, palpable in many ways. She knows, if anything, he'd play for the own adjustments of his amusement. He's good like that, she almost says.

"Sounds like him," she murmurs; her voice is strained, under the lie, because it's not Jamie. It hasn't been Jamie for years - or does she really know? She hates this. She hates that she's suddenly becoming too aware. She hasn't known this thing in such a long time. He's been away and she hasn't asked - she knows it's her fault, on that end.

House shrugs. "I took him back."

Her eyes narrow. "I was up."

He's playing with her and she won't do it. It's the same game from early. Different situations, different names and things to use – the formula never changes, that much she recognizes. She shakes her head and he smirks, pushing himself away from the wall.

"Were you?"

The soda's forgotten, even as she pockets her change, stepping forward to face him. Her arms cross over her chest and she leans into his space, even more, as she eyes him.

"What did he say?"

It's not an admission - or maybe, maybe it is. The only sense of certainty that she does have is the way she watches him. So he has that part, but he doesn't understand it and as long as he doesn't understand it, he can't have it. There's just no logic to it right now. It feels like she's fighting with herself.

"Said nothing," he shrugs again.

Her voice is soft. "What did he say?"

He's eyeing her, his eyes dark and his mouth turning. Sometimes, she thinks that he's ready to play with her. Only willing because she's here, right here, and there's nobody else in his line of vision. She's not letting him either - her response, jutting in between an array of different things, only walks with caution on all accounts. It's not that she can't defend herself - because she can - or because she doesn't want to.

She's adapted as best as she can.

"Just that you were his sister."

He offers nothing else. The lie is there, dangling in front of her and she almost throws it back to spite him, to say that she gets what he's trying to do. She can imagine the scene, the two of them sitting side by side in an odd display of comradely. It sounds like Jamie, talking more than he does now with the push of alcohol and the excuse. She's the same way, but says nothing. She's shaking her head before she can really think about it.

"Did he?"

His mouth curls slightly. She waits for it - _you just did_. It's what he does, the last word, jumping in between the moments and trying to decide for the others, for her, what the moment and mood will follow after the conversation ends. But it doesn't. He still says nothing to her.

Instead, he shakes his head and steps away. She watches, just to make sure; paranoid, maybe, but she doesn't like being alone like this. Too many things are facing her at once, too many memories and people. This is what indecision does to her. It keeps her waiting.

"In passing," he calls back.

Her ears are ringing again. It only stays to strain.

* * *

When she gets back home, the apartment is dark.

Her keys are cool against her palm. She's forgotten her gloves in the car and they crash, the only sound breaking the stillness of her street.

She doesn't expect him here. She doesn't know why; there's this bridge of acceptance that seems to be too familiar to her, the way that it stands and stills, thriving only when she thinks about the things that she could do. It's a game even: could do, would do, _might_ do. It never stops. It never really begins either. But she's promised herself to let go of that, simply because there's no need to drift into an argument with the assumptions of her own guilt and her own weight.

She just wants to talk.

Opening her door, she steps in. The small hallway is graying, under the blur of light that she brings in with her. She drops her keys, immediately folding into her routine as she slips out of her jacket, only dropping her bag. She hears a rustles of noises, the relief suddenly foreign and strange as she brushes through the motions, nearly stumbling to catch him.

"Jamie?"

He pops out of his room, eyes dark and sagging. He's not sleeping again. She can almost hear him again, the murmurings and the twisting, wishing that she had, in fact, been awake last night, if anything and to help him out. It's the accusations that House brought out or didn't bring out, drawing upon the slips of awkwardness that made him as he is and her as she is.

It's daunting really. She doesn't know what she's let out or what Jamie's let out, the confusion taking a stand and at par with the different levels of anxieties that she has.

"Hey," he says finally. "I'm heading out now. Meeting people - and in a couple days, I'll be out of your hair."

She blinks. "I - you know you can stay as long as you want. I thought we'd go grab something to eat. Not far, so you can go do what you want to do. I – if you want to, that is."

He looks at her, really looks at her, and there's a passage of guilty; transferring, him to her to her to him, and not really saying anything at all. She wonders if she could go back and really do things differently. She wonders if she could've been there for him more. If he wanted her there for her more. He doesn't have to tell her - she should've known.

"I'm not hungry."

His hands are in his pockets. She watches as his arms twist and the fabric at his side follows. His jacket is between them, resting at a chair against the kitchen bar that she never used.

"Are you going to talk to me?"

It falls too quick to catch and it's almost funny how, even fragmented, it sounds as if she and Chase were talking again. There are a series of events that have made their relationship into fragments, not good days or bad days. There's pressure. There's no pressure. It's scary too how in a brief period of hours that, only days, pieces of her life have come out and stretched themselves over the table, waiting for someone to come and pick them up for display.

"Allison," he mutters. "Don't."

There's a color of annoyance in his voice, too soft to be sharp but heavy enough. She winces as it lingers and churns, her stomach trembling into knots.

"What?" Is it because she doesn't push? She tries, reaching for him but he steps away. "I'm here, you know. I don't have any excuses. I'm not making them. But I'm worried, Jamie. I'm worried about you and this."

He throws it back at her. "Are you?"

Her eyes burn, just a little, and the tightness in her throat expands, burning up and down as it crawls against the lines of her mouth. The motions are familiar, too familiar, and the splurge of memories rise and twist, too fast as she tries and grasps the situation. She wants to be better. She wants to be better than this. It brings her back though, to that point where she decided that six hundred miles was a necessary safety and staple for her to continue her life.

Then again, this is what regret seems to mean.

She never guessed the range of consequences but, then again, who really did? She never planned to be here, she never planned for things like loss and the steps that she's taken. It's then, really, that she misses her husband. She misses him and the things that he just got, no questions asked. She wants that back.

But it was already hers to lose. It selfish even keeping that in mind.

"I don't know what to tell you."

She means it too, wondering if there's something better that she can say to him. Something that will make him say _hey, this is what's wrong_ even just a little bit. She wishes that she could. Or that, if anything, she wishes that she wasn't too aware of how much better she was at talking to patients, to people outside of her own family and friends. The facets of her life that she's supposed to be good with – something that the expectation is never left alone.

"I wish I did," she adds quietly, shrugging. "I wish I did have something to say. The right thing to say. I wish I had that to give to you. Please."

He's quiet, watching her. Somehow, she can imagine him and House again. At the bar, as if it were a confessional; House, whether he'd admits it or not, draws particulars out of people that they don't mean to give. It frightening and heavy and makes you more aware of your own impasses than anything else. It's what he does, instead of drawing out his own weights.

That much she knows.

Jamie takes a step forward, finally, almost as if he were to reach for her. She watches, her shoulders tightening and waiting. She doesn't know what to expect, how to expect anything with him. It's, again, almost as if someone else is waiting to catch her off-guard.

He's only been here for two nights. She hates how this feels.

"Don't tell me anything, Allison. I told you - I'll be out of your hair in a couple days. There's nothing to tell at all."

He says it, means it, and pulls his coat off from the chair. It sweeps into his hand, smacking against his legs. He steps around her, past her. She hopes selfishly for a pause, waiting as her eyes close tightly and she listens to him leave. He's too, too quiet.

The door slams behind him.

* * *

Despite the silence, the apartment unfolds and opens to her.

Her phone sits in the middle of her bed. Weighted, the creases unravel underneath it and spread in lines over the blankets that she's yet to fix. It's another piece of her routine that she hasn't touched. There's been two days of no running, coffee instead of breakfast, and the late hours next week.

There's also a reminder that Cuddy wants to see her again.

It's the second time she's reminded herself. She's wary, not because what happened was a total disaster, but because it's going to reemerge as something else. She's half-aware that it might have something to do with the budget, about the progress that they're making, quietly and on their own. It's interesting, underneath everything else, that she's getting a chance to see and work with everything else. She's confused, sometimes, about how there are things that she still doesn't know and still isn't used too.

She picks up her phone.

Her parents' number is the first on her list and she stares at it, almost blank and tired. She doesn't want to have the conversation. They'll be angry. She'd be angry too. There's always been a significant different in their relationships with both Jamie and herself. Ultimately, it's become clearer by the years. It's never easy to take though.

But she calls.

The ring is too heavy, too loud, and she waits, trying not swallow desperately. Her throat stays tight, tense, and feels as if there's nothing but dust, that dry sensation that she gets from time to time when facing several things at work. The difference, too, is that the idea of six hundred miles still throws back and forth in her head, reminding her that there are more things she's not okay with.

The answering machine greets her with a sharp beep.

"Mom," she starts quietly. "I - sorry, I haven't called you back. I meant to, on Sunday, but I just got crazy with a few things here. More than a little crazy."

She cradles the phone to her ear.

She takes the pause, not knowing where to start and stop. How can she say it? Her memories are volatile at best, turning around only to keep her persistence. It's too many things at once, if anything.

"I picked up Jamie at the airport."

She says it instead of _he's back_ , picturing the way her mother's face might tense and drop. Her eyes close and she rubs them, shaking her head. She doesn't know what she's going to do - her parents already remind her of other things. Being too far, keeping quiet about relationship and friends and things that she could have at home. They want her home, worried about her ever since she got married and lost her husband.

That was years and years ago.

"I know, I know," she continues, sighing. "I wanted to call you, but you know how he gets. I know how he gets. I just wanted him to talk to me. I needed him to know that he can talk to me. But -"

He can't. He won't. Apparently, he drinks with House now. There's still a list of things she could say.

"I don't know if he wants to talk to you guys. He doesn't want to even talk to me."

She's quiet, sighing.

"I should try, harder huh?"

The difference between now and then, talking to someone and not talking to someone is that there's no one with _anything_ to say. She can imagine. She can taste even taste it.

There's just no response.


	8. Chapter 8

The excuse is too easy to have.

She's drawn, to the end of the hallway; different floor, same floor. It makes no difference still, time is time, with the things she's said and done. It all feels the same. She exchanges waves and nods with people that she knows, the ones that still keep the familiar greetings alive.

The others must be long gone. Foreman used to live downstairs, with the clinical trials that he was still conducting. He's absent now. There's Thirteen. Things are changing again and she remembers, a while back, their exchange of advice – it's better stay away from question. Their relationship maintains its ups and downs, but what she knows best is that he'll talk to Chase and those arguments will start all over again. She doesn't want that. She keeps walking though, drawing her hands into her pockets and heading down to the offices. House has the corner, Wilson has the other, and she's almost certain that she'd be better off going to Wilson's instead.

She has more to lose with House.

There's a strange sense of certainty though that she has and doesn't, rising to reassure her. He'd bring it up, he might up, and it doesn't matter, but it gets to keep her guarded and straight. She knows herself better this way.

But it has to do more with what she doesn't know. He has the higher card. He has a lot of things that she _should_ have and she doesn't know if it makes her feel helpless or angry all the same.

The light in his office is on, low, and slips into the hallway. It faces the walls, causing her to stop and hesitate for a second. It would be funny if Jamie was there. It wouldn't.

There's no way.

She steps forward again. She knocks on the glass, her knuckles rapping a little too hard as she finds him sitting in the chair in the corner. He's slumped, leaning into the pillow. His eyes are half-open, his mouth shifting and then smirking as she looks down at him. Her mouth tenses too and she steps closer, then back just to lean against the wall to watch him.

There's a sense of déjà vu, funny, and she can almost replay the volume of their previous conversations. She can guess and check and it still feels the same. But she wants more.

She needs to know more.

"How was he?" there's a slight hitch in her voice, her vulnerability on display. It's her brother, she almost says. She's worried.

He studies her, his mouth turning and then fading. She tries to guess, but her ears are ringing and ringing tightly. She feels her hands tense too and she crosses her arms against her chest, expectant.

"So you weren't lying," he says.

"I don't make a habit of it."

She bites. Cameron knows there's little she can do here, pushing herself exposed and angry with the things that she does and won't do. He knows her still.

He smirks again. "I see that drowning your sorrows thing is pretty stylish in your brood."

"Funny."

"I _know_."

She shakes her head, looking away and into his office. He's been preaching change, back and forth and into these moments that none of them ever understand. Sometimes, she feels like she's back to the first days with him. Sometimes, she doesn't. But they seemingly favor all sorts of moments, little and big.

She throws things back.

"You're trying to hold this over my head."

It's an observation, not an assumption, and she's still not looking at him. The shades are drawn, over his chair, and there are scattered folders over his desk. An old case, she can only assume, opened and laughing against his desk. He likes old things, she thinks. Memories and files and pieces of things that he can still _use_.

"Am I?"

His voice is thick, heavy, and she shivers, fighting her arms over a hold against her chest. She turns back, looking at him and shaking her head

She bites her lip. "Are you?"

It feels weak, but he looks down and away. Her voice echoes, almost huskily as the two of them stand her. She remembers the confrontation in the patient's home, the way they snapped and sulked. She had nothing to prove, it wasn't about that; it was more so about the sensation, the daunting way he still seemed to keep himself over her head, watching and judging. Making sure that she still knew that he was still there.

Then there was later. Later, if anything, had much more of a strain and impact than she thought it would. It's an admission she won't give him. Maybe, it's on principle. Maybe, it's not. But again, it brought her back to how much weight he _does_ have, no matter how hard she keeps to the argument of being away from all of those habits.

She shakes her head.

"He's my brother," she says quietly. "I'm just asking a question."

She expects the response, but he shrugs instead. "Carbon copy."

It tries to be a dig, but remains unsuccessful at best. There are things that he can do and then there are the things that she's already heard, waiting to remind her or work in her favor.

"Something likes that."

That's all she has. She shifts away from the wall, moving closer. His legs dangle over the footrest, tucked to the side with enough room. There's no invitation, but she takes it and settles, tucking her arms over her knees. She points herself away from him, watching the hallway, waiting for some sort of excuse.

"Was it bad?'

She shouldn't be asking, but she asks. She wants to know. She needs to be able to expect something, waiting for the moment where she can go back home again and hope that there's an in to talking with her brother. She's too aware of House's uncanny way of being able to get things out of people. He doesn't talk, they offer in hoards and in sacrifices, a response to how abrasive and ugly he can get.

But she's quiet. She's using him back.

"He didn't have any keys to take."

It's a self-indulgent thing to say. On the surface, she can only speculate what it means. It's been too much time and things, even within the guise of a normal schedule, keep _moving_.

He's watching her though. His leg presses forward, against her side. She feels herself flush, only briefly, her mouth twisting in response. She waits for the range that usually pulls but nothing seams to fall. He seems too content to watch her, as if he were re-familiarizing himself with her responses and questions. She doesn't know why, but she doesn't expect anything less. It's what he does best.

"I'm worried," she shrugs, as if to hide.

He scoffs. "Right. And it's giving you wrinkles. You didn't even bring any coffee to drink. And I've got no hair to braid, in case, you can't tell. Or, yeah, that works for you."

Her eyes darken. She feels herself ready to get angry, but it doesn't come. She's tired. She doesn't want to be tired. Everything is to close to the surface. _This_ is way too close to the surface.

"This is - I don't even know."

She pushes herself off from the footrest, her hand drawing briefly over his leg. She tries not to snap back, hiding behind an absent gaze. But there's no hiss from him, no sigh, and she moves her hands to her hips before there's anything else to say to her.

Her fingers rub together, all dry. "I'll just call you next time then."

She leaves him, without anything else to say.


	9. Chapter 9

The bed shifts.

"Hey."

It was late when she returned, and now late in the morning when she wakes; her eyes are cracked, watching as Jamie shifts against the edge of her bed. She doesn't smell the alcohol, just a hint of cigarettes, and opens her eyes wider, watching as he straightens and sighs.

The morning brings shadows to her room, twisting and dancing against the walls. There's a horn outside, then two, then three, and she loses the moment almost quickly.

He reaches for her hand.

His fingers tip against hers, sliding against the back of her hand as if he were waiting for her to say something. Excuses, excuses, excuses - they come and go, pleased to any sort of favor for an end in his regard. That's what House is for. That's what those conversations are for. That's what's been playing heavily in her head since she's gotten back home.

"I'm heading out tonight," he says quietly. "I'm going down to Dallas. Been called to do a few things down there. I just wanted to let you know."

Her eyes widen.

There's tension and she sits up, straining to tuck herself into a quick position. Her mouth tightens and she crosses her legs underneath her, failing to keep any of the uneasy that stays steady between them. She's quick to remember last night and the morning, mixing into a blend of moments that haven't even touched them yet.

They haven't _talked_.

"Okay," still stumbles out of her, confused and heavy. "I – " she tries again too, studying him. "Okay."

His scar runs back into view, much darker than she remembers. It seems harder, longer, and she cringes, trying to look away, trying not to make him uncomfortable. His gaze is the same from previous days, as if he's had another nightmare again. The dark circles around his eyes are steady. It's his scar though that makes her uncomfortable. She hates the sensation, but finds herself worrying about the rush of redness flushing fresh around it. As if he were picking it, over and over again.

She feels ridiculous, tired, and the response doesn't even seem to be enough as she picks her blanket. "I'll make sure that I'm home early so that I can take you to the airport."

"I called a shuttle."

Is he really going to do this? She looks at him, both surprised and hurt. She can't help but wonder if she was like these years ago, still going home frequently and trying to keep face with the people and place that has made her as she is. She hates that she doesn't even know her own brother this way.

It's a hard thing to swallow. It makes her too aware of what she's stepped back from. There are decisions that she's made, most that she's been okay with. Another time, another place, and she's back at it, back in the city, wearing a ring and clustered into moments that she was nowhere near ready to understand. It could've been anyone.

She brushes her hair out of her eyes and looks up to him, shaking her head.

"You didn't have to."

He shakes his head too. "I did."

It's almost like they're back home too, under their parents. They're standing at the first time, _that_ first time he decided to go away. Fourteen or fifteen, eighteen and counting, her fingers almost itch to go and find that photograph, to bury herself in that moment and what they were once.

She's never like this. She's never been like this.

"I miss you."

It's the second time. It feels heavy and walks back down her throat, curling and keeping steady for the next time. But she says it then, stretching only to let it linger and fall between them. Her eyes are burning and then blur, slowly letting the tears slide into her skin.

She tries to swallow, but her mouth is trembling too hard. She brings her face to her hands and presses them over her eyes, trying not let him see. She's exhausted, she shouldn't be. It's going to be nothing but light weeks soon. It's just a reminder, a mantra over and over again of the things that she keeps falling into.

"I mean," she murmurs, choking. She coughs, shaking her head. "I wish I had something to say. I mean that - I know I could've been better. You came to stay with me and -"

His hand drops over her knee. There's no sense of reassurance, no weight, and there's no kindness that needs to fall into display. She wishes that there were more things to say, that she _had_ more to say, but she can't find it. She doesn't know how to find it and thrust it back into action.

"Stop it."

His voice is low, hard. Her eyes widen, his fingers pressing tighter. He's firm, his gaze heavy. She feels it, strangely, the sudden change. The Jamie that leaves, always knows how to leave. Maybe, she hasn't known him at all. It only proves the persistence of the argument, the things that both of them have merely promised to understand and bond. It why he comes to her first and not her parents and to make that understandable to anyone, to anyone at all is daunting enough.

It lingers though, stop it; he seems to favor time, waiting and watching as she tries to gather herself. She's still crying, quietly unraveling right in front of him. He's studying her through and she's back, wondering about the conversation that transpired in the bar. If it's true. Chase could have told House or if anything, she could've done it herself.

She's done that before. She was good at it too.

Jamie sighs though, leaning forward and kissing her forehead. Like a child, like she's still a child. She hates that. She's always hated that, stretching to prove herself aside from age and things to do. People have that look to favor, they've always had it and she's carried it, through the years to motivate her all the same.

It's different from her brother. He sighs again.

"It's not your fault," he says quietly. "You need to stop thinking it's your fault. I want you to stop thinking that it is. I made the decision to do _this_. I'm still making the decision to do this. I – I'm screwed up sometimes and I've got to deal with it on my own, okay? I just don't want to put that on you."

It hits hard, too close to the way things are and could be, were and should have been; she feels it again, the way he's watching her and taking charge of the moment, to reassure her and to hide. He hides too, just like her. It could be funny, if this were about someone else.

"Okay."

She says it, without anything else to say. The sound of her voice thins. It makes her more than aware of the distance, at the things that she's suddenly losing. There are no protests, none that allow her to use them. She gives in and leans forward, stretching to pull him in her arms. He's tense and tight, his head dropping against her shoulder.

Slowly, his hands press into her back. It's a reassurance. She shouldn't take it, but she does. Her eyes close tightly.

"I'm sorry," she says quietly.

She means it more than he'll ever know.

* * *

It stays with her on the drive to work as she thinks about the conversation. His eyes, still heavy, seem to be a permanent fixture in her head, as if she were looking back at herself, still moving and pushing forward. They haven't talked and she's beginning to understand that it's more than possible that they won't talk. She hasn't been able to keep that fixture she has on this from staying.

She needs to let this go. It's what he wants.

It makes no sense to carry this with her, wearing herself out when she's got an entire day ahead of her with things to do. Getting to the hospital, as par with her routine, she's greeted with energy. It rushes with difference of faces; the way people disappear and reappear at different corners of the bottom floor. She remembers Cuddy again, but pushes it to later.

Familiar, in charge, she sweeps into her mask and heads up and to the locker room, changing out of her clothes. The scrubs, still funny to get used to, weigh against her skin. They're coarse, almost itchy and stretch even as she sits down to retie her shoes.

"You're late today."

She barely flinches or turns, half-expecting a conversation with Chase anyway. They do this part well too - dancing around each other, waiting for some sense of an answer or the other person to give into the argument to avoid. What people don't understand is that they're good at this, at dancing back and forth between _we're okay_ and _we're not okay_ as if it were second nature anyway.

There's a sense of regret to this too, to the way that he's watching her and she finds herself looking at him. She can still stay she loves him, but can he? Or is it really that? It's so stupid to say, ridiculous to even press herself into. It's there, that tightness, drawing upon things that shouldn't be there to begin with. There are moments where she thinks she could say it to him - she's been there, in glimmers, and they've been at this point too many time to count.

Meaning it, apparently, is something completely different.

"Yeah," she says finally. "Traffic. And some things at home."

She shrugs too, standing and reaching for her locker. She runs her thumb against the bridge of metal. No photographs here, no time; she keeps everything at home, everything in her room and within reach. There are too many things in boxes, easy enough to hide and too easy to understand that they're already there. She looks, sometimes, but they stay in storage, in a spare closet in the guest room. The memories are angry enough as it is.

"How is he?"

He's trying again and she has to smile, shrugging and shaking her head. She almost tells him though. She's not completely compelled but there is that sense of obligation, daunting and too present. They've been together for almost two years; more before that, colleagues but never friends.

She wonders if that was their problem too. They were never good enough friends. She trusts him as much as he trusts her. He talks the game though and she's sure, if anything, he's more convincing on that aspect. She has no desire to do that and it seems that he pulls from other things, things that she doesn't know and things he'll never tell her.

"I don't want to talk about it."

For now, the words remain familiar. "It's been a long couple days - and my mom still hasn't called. I'm saving everything for that."

She's as candid as she needs to be, shutting her locker and then turning, stepping to the row of mirrors over sinks. She picks the one at the farthest end, listening to him follow her. She doesn't look at him, preferring to keep her gaze straight. She takes the moment, then.

"I'm sorry."

This time, she means it too. Her intentions aren't clear, even to herself, as she reaches forward. Her fingers curl around the faucet, a blast of water hits the mouth of the sink. It rushes against the white, blending and running into the drain. She doesn't reach for it.

"I haven't been the best at this," she continues, sighing. "It's been a bad week."

It sounds like an excuse. It doesn't feel like it. It shouldn't, but maybe, it is. She's sure that he knows and at the same time, she wants to feel like she's been trying. She _needs_ to feel like she's trying, that she's done something right.

She wants to feel like she's done something right.

"I know."

He steps closer, behind her, reaching for her shoulders. His fingers curl lightly and hers, mirroring his stance, curl into the sink. She bites the inside of her mouth and meets his gaze, watching him through the glass as they stay standing.

"We should talk," he's pulling out old fragments, wandering as the two of them settle. "Not now, but in a little while. You just need to do what you need to do - and take care of yourself. You look awful."

She snorts, flushing despite herself. "Thanks."

There's a familiar sense of softness there, a bit of warmth that lingers and then fades. It feels strange, almost, too foreign as if they were already getting rusty. She wishes she was a little better with him, that more of her wasn't stuck in these steps of the past, how they rise and fall just in front of her and for all to see. She hopes that he understands that she doesn't mean to fight him with everything on the line like this. She hates that she might be losing this -

Funny, she thinks, how it comes out now.

It's the idea; she's beginning to believe. She's too used to holding onto things, too used to fighting and pushing, pulling at things that aren't meant to hang around. She doesn't want to lose anything; it's the worst flaw that she carries around, now nothing more than identification and a knot around her throat. She knows a little better now.

"Late night?"

She needs something generic, something simple, glancing back and dipping her fingers into the water. They run and linger, drifting as she shifts and even tries to smile. Anything but looking at him directly. Whatever makes this easier, she has to think.

"No," he says quietly, drawing back. "Not tonight. I need to get home tonight. Haven't been sleeping well."

She almost asks, but stays away from it and rubs her hands underneath the water. Lukewarm, she changes it to cold and bends over, throwing the cold water in her face. It presses against her skin, open-mouthed and soft. The sensation lingers too as her hair curtains around her, hiding her from view. She keeps herself strained, easy, and looks back up at him in the mirror as she settles into the motions again.

She reaches for a towel, but he hands it to her.

"I'll call you," she says.

But doesn't promise – she should be saying a lot of things, from how she wants to be home, with her brother, to how she's distracted and it's getting to her like before. Like the first couple weeks that they were back. She doesn't say anything though. There's no push, less of draw to. He seems to understand that well.

"Okay."

He throws it back at her, easy, all the same.


	10. Chapter 10

He finds her first, ironically, this time around.

The cafeteria is near empty and she's picking at her food, watching as the weather report calls for snow. There's a television off to the side that promises rain to follow as well, for another round of expectations to kick out. Her phone is next to her. Jamie said something about calling later and she still plans on heading home, wanting to see him off despite everything they've said to each other. Her mother hasn't called either and as odd as it sounds, there's no charge to the guilt that she still feels.

It's heavy enough as is. This has happened too fast.

She jumps when House's cane hits her table, over her files and skirting her apple away. It hits the floor hard and she sighs, watching him take the seat next to her instead of across as it pulls any chance for space away from him.

"Heard about your lover's quarrel."

She scoffs, rolling her eyes. "Am I pregnant again? Or did he cheat? Or did I cheat? Or how about yet - did I lose his engagement ring, trying to save Chase from his gambling debts, prompted by the loss of his father and all the issues that he has from never really becoming a priest."

House actually laughs or makes the motions of laugher, the sound barking harshly into the area. His mouth is curled, twisted up, and he shakes his head, reaching for a few fries on her plate. He picks at one, brushing it along his mouth and letting it slide, taking a hard, exaggerated bite.

"You can almost tell a joke. Cute."

She's confused, if anything, wanting to know why he's come to find her, if he's come to find her. He's never directly come to find her. Not like this, only splurges of boredom that seems to stand away from something practical. It brings speculation into the mix as well, hanging back and forth between her ideas of him then and now.

It makes her feel like she's being drawn back into _that_ place. The place where he seems to want to keep her, taking from her what he needs. It's generic though, simple for everyone; they're all lined, in all degrees of their relationship with him, in a particular sense and need. It ranges, not because of the person, but because of _how_ far he might get with using them.

It's just the way it is. It seems to be the way things are going to stay too.

"Can I help you?"

She tries not to snap. She pulls her tray away from his reach and lines everything up again. She picks up his cane, wrapping her fingers around the handle and shifts, bending back into his space, only line it against the seat. She's pressed into his side though, aware and unaware, keeping herself calm. She draws back and looks up, biting her lip. The silence is heavy, as if it were waiting for some sort of apology, her mouth set almost in defiance.

"Nope," he says darkly. "You can't."

He seems to take it as a pointed reference to something, watching her and daring her to move back – move _him_ back. He doesn't seem uncomfortable with the lack of space between the two of them. It still scares and thrills her, a fact that belongs to the range of issues she continues to have with this and _him_.

His hand, however, starts for a reach and curls around her arm. It slides along the tense arch, cupping her elbow. His thumb sweeps over her sweater, pressing the fabric against her skin and waiting for her to respond back. Her throat dries and she shakes her head, waiting for him to make the move.

"That's not what I meant."

It's the second apology of the day, the second and almost misguided one; it should've gone to Chase, to Chase and the array of fights that they've been having. It's gone to her brother, but her brother's leaving. Like she does. Like House does. Funny, how all these things unravel at once and how familiar they all seem.

"That's _not_ what I meant," she says again, louder. "And you know it - don't start, okay? You don't have a monopoly on crappy days."

His mouth twitches, but doesn't curl. His hand keeps moving over his arm, his fingers skimming against the sweater. It's colder in the cafeteria. But her skin is flushing, and it follows the path of his fingers, skimming against the lines of her wrist. Her skin buzzes at the contact, completely unnecessary.

She can't _really_ look at him. They've had their moments. A kiss. The date from hell. But they're starting to age to, warm and almost cruel at best.

She wants to hate him. But she doesn't know how to.

"That's not what I meant," he mimics, now smirking.

She snorts, shaking her head. Her eyes drop though, watching his hand still. They move from her wrist to her hand, driving against her palm. It's strangely possessive, but out of place. Yet, if anything, she feels too close, too simple, and too close with what she understands about her own vulnerability. It's what he's good at, she thinks, pushing these moments out of her.

There's a question, but she forgets. Her head tilts slightly as she watches . His smirk does fade, the ends of his mouth lining straight. She doesn't read him, far from the desire to know how or _why_. She's more on the edge with what she _doesn't_ see. She doesn't need to see what he wants. Or what she thinks he wants. She doesn't need to take what she can't afford. And if anything, his predictability is more of a martyr than her own.

"You need anything else, then?"

It stumbles and falls, having no effect on the weight of the conversation. Everything is there, pressing into the surface. There's just nothing to say, nothing and nothing seem only pressed to be weak reassurances.

He doesn't say anything and lets his hand drop, only to rise and press into her face. Her eyes widen and his palm, sliding against her cheek, moves along her jaw and cups it. His fingers sweep against the line and she doesn't know what to do, how to break away, or keep back to any amounting sanity. Her lips press together hard.

"You're funny."

His voice is heavy. He's mocking her, he's not mocking her, and he slides forward, shifting his hip into hers. They're twisted against each other awkwardly. Her hip is cocked into this odd angle, daring her discomfort to rise. He is leaning into her – it could be the pain, to see what she'll do, to use _something_.

Cameron finds herself too aware that sensation, of having to prove herself to him. Like before. Like after.

She can't get away. It's like she's said before to everybody. _He's in my head_. It's something she can't get back.

"I'm funny?" Her voice is soft, thin.

He nods and leans forward. There's no particular response. His gaze grows to an unfamiliar weight. She could say warmth. She wouldn't know what to do with _that_.

But he kisses her.

His lips dry along hers, his teeth skimming against her lip. Her mouth doesn't move. She hisses softly, pressing her palms into his chest, twisting a hand into his shirt.

"What are you doing?" she mutters against his mouth.

She's kissing him back, slow and soft, drawing herself into the moment without thinking. There's a charge of sensation and his hand drops, pressing into her leg. She shivers and feels herself leans closer, sliding her tongue into his mouth. She's slow, running it against his and feels him growl. It pushes back against her: angry, not angry, here and not there. They're in the middle of the cafeteria, in front of anyone who can walk and it's almost feeling as if he's got a point to prove.

As if he's trying to make her into another game to play.

He breaks the kiss first and her lips are burning, hard and tight. She's still against him, still tense, and almost cupped into his side. Breathing heavily, she tries to ignore the pressure buzzing against the skin. It jumps and crawls in her stomach. He's watching her, eyes low and hard, and his mouth wet from hers. Her fingers stay curled in his shirt.

"What?" he feigns a sense of innocence, his voice heavy and trying to be mocking. There's this thickness that wasn't there and she can feel his hand over her leg, sliding lazily against the arch of her knee.

She shakes her head.

She doesn't want to give it to him. She doesn't have to. Her hair spills, walking against her neck and throat. She's trying not let her thoughts move. She's aware of things to do, things that she needs to do and people to see.

She's not going to play his game.

"You're no fun."

He says it again too, drawling _fun_ over her ear as he presses it into her skin. His breath is hot, almost sticky, and she swears, swears that she can feel him smirk again.

"I think I get it."

It's what he adds that finally gets to her, making her turn as he slides back out, grabbing his cane. He's purposely slow, even with a glance, and starts out for the exit. It bites at her. She has to watch him walk, wonder what's just happened; there's the guilt, the confusion, and everything is too familiar as is. But he stops at the mouth of the entrance, almost triumphant as he looks back at her. He doesn't wave. He doesn't grin. He just studies her.

And that's it.

That's _it_. She thinks that's what makes it worse, that she's left with a range things she doesn't understand, but refuses to relate to like this. The weeks are clashing again. Another year, another phase; she's going deeper into something new and yet, it's as if he's trying to remind her that he's still here.

Her eyes close.

She straightens herself. As if to say _hey_ or even, _it didn't work_. She looks back over to the door. He's stopped. She's let her hands curl against the small table. People fit around him and he never acknowledges the change of numbers. It's only than that he does nod, turning around.

He leaves her with the crowd. Someone recognizes her, smiles, and Cameron is finds herself fighting to be polite back. This time, there's nothing to hide behind.

It's as if she's moving backwards all over again.


	11. Chapter 11

Her lips stay burning.

All the way home, in the car and up the steps; it haunts her, her lack of progress and the way it just happened. She wants to say something like it isn't fair, to be pointed and angry.

It doesn't do anything. She's known for too long that, at any point, she'd walk back into this. There's no purpose to any of these moments – or there is, something that runs right over her head. But she thinks it's there, in front of her, ready to serve as a reminder of things that she shouldn't touch.

She wants to hate House for it.

Her apartment is dark when she gets home, her phone buzzing at her hip. Time _was_ lost to her, of her own fault and decisions. She ignores her thoughts though, letting herself in and her throat catching with surprise and burning as she stares at the lack of bags in the hallway. She had been half-hoping, pushing for the possibility of him staying, even for just a few more hours. But there's nothing there, there's no sign of her brother being she or there, waiting for her and hoping to talk.

She feels wistful. She ignores it too.

The lights by the door go on, her fingers pressing into the switch as she pushes it up. There's a slight crack, one of the bulbs going back out. The light seems to whine and clicks and she shakes her head.

"Of course."

She steps in, locking the door. She hopes there's a note. There has to be a note. He's not that cold. They've never been like that and she hopes, despite everything, that's still something for her to know. It's still something that she needs to _know_. But the table is blank, her coffee table following in example, and the kitchen counter too. The apartment feels blank, forced, and lined with walls of things she just needs to know.

The guest room is a lazy possibility. Desperate, at best.

There are books. There is a vase of flowers, daisies that are her favorite. They're ready to die, she knows, since she's had them last week. She likes to pretend that they're some sort of apology; not from anyone, but from herself, because she continues to promise that she can better than this, that she wants to be better than this. She hopes to be. Still. And maybe that, there, is what House was trying to throw into her face.

She shakes herself out of her coat.

It drops and hits the corner of her couch, draping haphazardly over the arm. She lets it sit and heads straight to the guest room. She bites her lip hard, preparing herself. In the hallway, there's no lingering smell, no alcohol or cigarettes. The bed is made and the only indication of Jamie being here, if anything, seems to be the way everything is put back. The corners of the sheets are too neat, the blanket looks like it hasn't been moved, and there's nothing to say about any of the pictures and the closet, nothing seemingly forced into moving.

He's gone. He's really gone. It would be something she'd do too.

She's trying not to think about that.

She pulls herself away from the room, slamming the door. It feels childish, her reaction, and the weight of the sound still crashes in her ears, ringing as she walks to her bedroom. Everything is as she left it - bed unmade, pictures still standing. One is face down from knocking it over this morning; she was late, uncaring and half-asleep, not ready to deal with the things that were waiting for her there.

He's gone.

It's the newest mantra, twisting back and forth in her head. She wants to believe that he didn't mean it, that maybe later, he'll call and say something like, _hey there was a real emergency_ or even, simply, _I forgot a note_. She wants to believe that it would be something she'd do too, for him in return. Or is he really angry with her? Is that why they couldn't talk? Why he didn't think he could talk to her? It bothers her that she still doesn't know what happened at the bar and, even if it were nothing at all, it holds over her head, weighing high as she tries and keeps things moving.

It should be secondary. She sits on her bed.

Underneath her, the blankets wrinkle and crack. She frowns, shifting, and reaches to pull a piece of paper out. Her heart pounds, there's some sort of relief. He did remember, she thinks. She knew it - something _didn't_ change.

It's a bill.

Something that she opened this morning, tossed to the side in a rush, and left the envelope by her dresser. Her lips tighten and she reaches for her eyes, pressing her fingers hard. She rubs and rubs, fighting the swell of tears that have been waiting to just fall again, heavy and hard because it's been that long. She's been angry, too quick to stay away from these moments. It's never been this personal.

On her hip, her phone buzzes again.

This time, she reaches for it, and her fingers curl around it. She pulls it from her side. One missed call snaps up at her, waving idly at her face. She doesn't know what to do. It can't be Chase, she doesn't want to talk to him; there are expectations from the day, from work and things that she wanted to talk about and get done. She hasn't gotten anything done this week.

Shes quiet.

And she dials her voicemail.

"Allison," on speaker, her mother's voice wrinkles and quiets, taking the pause. She waits for it to be angry, to throw an accusation. But there's nothing there to say.

Her eyes close.

"Allison, I'll call you back. Sorry, your father and I are in the middle of the start of a new semester. You know how it is. But I -"

She shakes her head, watching the walls. She painted, in the summer. Chase helped. Yellow, he made fun of - it was something they did together. They were okay with doing together. She remembers that, little by little.

She remembers House's mouth on her.

"I talked to your brother," she says softly, "and he says _hello_."

Her chest twists. It's such an odd sensation to have, now, with everything that stands to stay as is. She hates that she's let it get like this.

"Thanks for calling."

It could be genuine, it could be a dig, and she's no longer able to tell with the kind of distance that stays standing here. She's barely aware of her mother hanging up, of the lack of connection that is suddenly forged. She forgets any of her instincts, of the moment that she had and the plans that she's carried, even until now.

The week's almost over. There's going to be more days. In her head, the apology is already being composed.

It was just two nights. It's all she let herself have.


End file.
